


lying that you love me

by whenitgoeswrong



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenitgoeswrong/pseuds/whenitgoeswrong
Summary: “There is nothing you can do or say that would be able stop this,” She told him, mustering a matter-of-fact tone, “And I will not ask it of you.”“No,” He snapped, the hand on her forearm tightening slightly, “You may not ask it of me, but I demand it of myself.”She stared, lost. “What on earth —?”“Marry me.”-Daenerys Targaryen is the daughter of a disgraced family, struggling to cope under the thumb of her older brother and preparing for a marriage of convenience. A final trip North to visit her childhood friend Robb Stark will change the course of four lives forever.(Victorian Era AU with a lil dash of fake marriage - though not between who you think)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei/Robb Stark
Comments: 86
Kudos: 212





	1. The Ball

**Author's Note:**

> ayo! despite looming uni deadlines i'm back writing. hope you enjoy!

“Oh I hate this.” 

Missandei stared up at the entrance to the manor, her expression like that of a woman facing a hungry lion. Daenerys squeezed her forearm in a manner she hoped was reassuring and led them up the stairs. 

“I promise you,” She murmured, nodding to the men who bowed as they crossed the threshold, “The moment we can leave, we shall.”

“That’s hours away, my Lady,” Missandei said miserably, “You’ll have to forgive me if I do not take much comfort in your words.” 

Daenerys made to reply, but just as they stepped into the foyer Tyrion Lannister entered through the kitchen. When he saw them, he threw his arms out in delight. 

“The Duchess Targaryen! And the beautiful Missandei Naath!” 

“My Lord,” Daenerys greeted, giving him a slight curtsey, “Thank you for your invitation.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Tyrion took her hand with a flourish and pressed a kiss to it. He made to grab Missandei’s hand but reconsidered after a glance at her face. “You will be pleased to know, Your Grace, that your Northern friend is already here and eagerly anticipating your arrival.” 

She smiled slightly, “That does please me, my Lord, but I have no doubt your sister will endeavour to keep us apart all night. Last I heard, no arrangement had yet been reached.” 

Tyrion’s face lit up, “Ah, but the wicked witch shall not grace us with her presence tonight, my Lady and Myrcella has decided to keep her mother company. You and the Duke are free to laugh the night away.” 

“Thank you for your permission, my Lord.” She said dryly, swallowing any visible signs of joy at the news that Cersei was not going to show. 

“Don’t thank me, thank my dear brother. He decided to dared to bring his wife and — well, you know how she gets, don’t you?” 

She exchanged looks with Missandei, who already looked bored to tears. “Indeed I do.” 

Tyrion peered around them suddenly, clutching his wine glass tighter. “Speaking of loathsome siblings, I don’t suppose yours decided to tag along, did he?” 

She tightened her grip on Missandei’s arm in the same moment that Missandei’s hand flew up to rest on her own.

“No, my Lord. He decided to refrain.” It was Missandei who spoke, words clear and crisp. Daenerys leant into her, shutting her eyes briefly. “He’s working on many projects in the East and could not spare the time.” 

“Thank the Gods for that,” Tyrion beamed, livening up again.

Before another word could be spoken, a familiar head of red curls peered out from the entrance to the ballroom. 

“Dan— Duchess Targaryen!” Robb stumbled over his words, grinning at her apologetically, “Miss Naath!” 

She clamped down on the ends of her smile. “Good evening.” 

“It is now,” He said cheerfully, kissing her on both cheeks and beaming at Missandei. “You two are a sight for sore eyes, truly.” 

Tyrion made a disgusted sound. “I’ll have no flattery this early in the evening, Stark, or I shall be sick before dinner is served.” Robb gave him a half bow, rolling his eyes as soon as Tyrion turned his back. “Come along now. You three can’t just stick to each other all night.” 

“Watch us,” Robb challenged, holding out his arm for Daenerys to take.

She did, giving him a genuine grin before they entered the ballroom. 

It had been a year since she had set foot in the Lannister manor for anything but business with Tyrion, so it was strange to see the huge room packed with swanning aristocrats and buttoned up waiters. 

As they ventured further into the room, she pulled Missandei closer, aware that there was little her friend hated more than contact with strange people.

“What made you venture from home, Your Grace?” Robb questioned, pulling them to a stop in a fairly quiet area of the room, flagging down a waiter with a tray of champagne. “Last I heard, you would rather die than attend such frivolous events.” 

“My stance has not changed,” Daenerys sighed, accepting a flute from Robb, “Nor has my circumstance worsened.”

“We are merely following orders,” Missandei finished, taking a delicate sip of her own drink. 

Robb pressed his lips together. 

He knew well what her brother was like, and what circumstances they were enduring, but he did not comment. Instead, he lifted his brows.

“I know last time you refused, but I would be delighted to have you in Winterfell again. If not for my sake, then for my sisters. They ask after you both all the time.”

Missandei straightened, but she turned to Daenerys before any excitement appeared on her face. “My Lady?” She asked, voice carefully casual. 

Daenerys bit her lip. “I will ask my brother, but —”

“I’ll make up a business reason,” Robb offered, “Something he can’t refuse.”

“It’s worth a try,” Missandei said firmly, knuckles whitening as she gripped her flute. 

Daenerys nodded, forcing a smile. She had the nasty habit of forgetting that Missandei was subject to her brother’s moods too, simply because they did not run into each other often. “If you write him a letter, I shall wheedle until he gives in.”

Robb lit up. “I shall send him a telegram first thing tomorrow morning,” He promised, before being distracted by the youngest Lady Frey sashaying up asking him a question in simpering tones. 

“His Grace truly is a most wonderful gentleman,” Missandei half-whispered, watching as Robb politely fielded intrusive questions and fluttering hands. 

Daenerys smirked knowingly. “It is not for me that he pulls out such wonderful manners. When I was ten I had never heard a _single_ filthy word in my life. He made sure I learnt them all in one afternoon.” 

Missandei turned to face her, eyes wide with shock. “You should not speak in such a manner, my Lady. You know not who could misunderstand your words.”

She hid her next smile behind her glass, nodding to placate her friend. “As you wish.” 

In return she received a stony glare. Moments later, Robb was successful in passing Lady Frey to another gentleman and turned back to them, wearing an expression akin to those who had laboured for hours. 

“By the Gods,” Daenerys giggled, “One would assume you had been here for days, not a mere hour.” 

He glared at her playfully, “You mock now, but I seem to remember you fleeing a mere thirty minutes into the last ball you attended.” 

“And I seem to remember _you_ finding me not two minutes after I had hidden away,” Daenerys volleyed, finishing the last of her champagne with a grimace. “I think we can agree that a ball with the Lannister Lady and one without are two very different affairs.” 

Robb tilted his head, conceding the point. “I must admit, it is rather refreshing not to be cornered and threatened into marriage with a girl who clearly would rather die.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Daenerys said grimly, scanning the room for a waiter, “I would not put it past the Lioness to emerge, her brother’s wife be damned.” 

“Then I shall hide behind Miss Tarth,” Robb hit back, “I’m sure she would not mind a round or two with the witch.” 

“That’s Duchess Lannister to you.” She corrected sternly, “And you’ll not put her between you and anyone else if you wish to keep my friendship.” 

“I jest, my Lady. She has helped my family tremendously. If anything, I would stand between her and the Lioness.” 

She nodded approvingly. “See that you do.” 

“Then, Miss Naath,” Robb turned to Missandei, playful smile softening, “I have been meaning to ask you about that game you taught us. I don’t exactly remember all the rules, and it makes Arya most frustrated.” 

Missandei smiled shyly and launched into a detailed explanation, not seeming to realise Robb was watching her every move fondly. 

Daenerys tuned them out, allowing them their precious time together, continuing her search for a waiter. 

Her eye was caught by a dark figure, flitting between people.

She frowned. 

His hair was longer than what was considered decent of men in society, styled in a manner unfit even for officers of the crown. The suit he wore was at least half a decade out of fashion, yet it was perfectly tailored and obviously expensive. 

A scowl decorated his comely face, the darkness of his manner undoubtedly the reason why those he passed paid him no heed. He ignored them in turn. 

Perplexed, she laid a gentle hand on Robb’s forearm, drawing his attention. “Forgive my ignorance, but I’m not sure I recognise that gentleman with the dour expression.”

Robb followed her gaze and grinned. “That would be Jon Snow. I admit he often looks severe, but he’s truly a wonderful man.”

She couldn’t help but doubt that. 

As Duke of Winterfell, Robb had both noble blood and considerable wealth, and he was used to people treating him as such. It made him a rather poor judge of character; those who fell over themselves to bestow upon him their pleasantries rarely extended the same manner to a family like her own. 

“He is one of my dearest friends, and is likely so dour because I promised I would not leave him. Come,” Robb held out his arm again, smile ever-charming. “I shall introduce you.” 

She caught Missandei’s eye, and only took Robb’s arm when her friend nodded.

They weaved through people, dodging attempts at conversation with polite smiles and quick excuses. Brienne caught her eye as they went past, and Daenerys gave her a reassuring smile. 

“Jon!”

Jon Snow turned, and she was abruptly struck by how beautiful he was. 

His eyes and hair were dark, a lovely contrast to his pale face. Though he wasn’t tall, he was broad and appeared to be just as well muscled as Robb under his stiff coat and shirt. But his jaw was set hard, his hands clenched into fists. 

No matter how comely a man, anger and sullenness were not traits that could be made up by a handsome face.

Her brother had taught her that.

“Jon, may I introduce my dear friends, Duchess Daenerys Targaryen and Miss Missandei Naath.” Robb hesitated momentarily. “Ladies, my, uh, cousin Mr Jon Snow.” 

Jon Snow’s entire frame seemed to be pulled taut, every inch of him coiled, as though he was attached to strings someone was pulling upon. 

He bowed low, lower than she felt comfortable matching in her curtsey. “Your Grace.” He turned to Missandei and bowed just as low, which she matched. “Miss.”

Though they carried the same accent, Jon Snow was missing the elegance with which Robb shaped his words, not dissimilar to those who worked in the kitchens in Winterfell.

“Mr Snow,” She hoped the expression she was wearing didn’t display her uneasiness, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Jon Snow’s face was a mask. “And I you.” 

“I am pleased to meet you.” Missandei echoed, and got a more genuine nod of Jon’s head for her trouble.

Silence hung over them, thick and heavy. 

Usually an infallible conversationalist, Robb fell into a stupor, glaring at his feet whilst she, Missandei and Jon Snow hung in the balance. 

She mustered all her courage for the sake of her friend, cursing him in her head. “Is this the first Lannister ball you have attended, Mr Snow?”

He was impassive. “Yes, Your Grace, I believe it is.” 

She tried not to flounder. 

“I only asked as I did not think I had happened upon you previously. How wonderful it is that I am still meeting new people at these things.” She smiled in a way that would make Viserys proud — _like butter wouldn’t melt,_ she heard him snarl — “Makes one realise that they are worth attending after all.”

Jon Snow remained unmoved; he seemed to sense she was speaking utter nonsense in an attempt to break the tension. Still, he opened his mouth to respond to her idle talk, which was more than she had expected.

“My brother.”

Daenerys turned to Robb, surprised by his sudden outburst. “I beg your pardon?” 

Missandei drew closer, looking around them warily. 

Robb looked up from his study of his shoes, expression serious. “Jon is my brother, Dany, not my cousin.”

Her moniker in a formal setting in front of foreign company _and_ a strange confession. Though she had known him since she was a child, Robb Stark truly never failed to floor her. 

“Robb, what on _earth_ are you talking about?”

Her similar abandonment of formality seemed to prompt him to action. 

He snatched up her arm and caught Jon Snow in his other hand. He dragged them both to the French doors leading to the porch, Missandei bringing up the rear. 

The night air hit her like a slap, goosebumps rising along her arms. She wished for a coat, casting a look over her shoulder to check that they hadn’t drawn too large an audience. 

Thankfully, it seemed that Tyrion had decided that then was the right moment to climb up on a chair and start giving a drunken speech; the crowd was completely focused on him but for the watchful eyes of Brienne.

People were less common on the porch, and the noise of the party was almost entirely gone once the door swung shut, but Robb wasn’t satisfied. 

He led the three of them down the steps into the vast garden, then behind a hedge that shaded them from view. By the time he let them come to a halt, he was breathing heavily, his eyes wild. 

Jon Snow shook off his grip and whisked himself a few feet away, his expression guarded.

“We’re not meant to tell anyone,” The words tripped out of Robb’s mouth in his haste. “Mother doesn’t speak of Jon. She allowed him to stay under the condition that he would never enter society, but after Father's death the manor became mine. Mother said that to avoid embarrassment he should be identified as a distant cousin.”

Daenerys’ jaw dropped. “And what can the excuse be for such senseless cruelty?” She demanded, retreating so that she stood at Missandei’s side, her wariness of Jon Snow evaporating like dew in the morning sun.

Robb’s eyes flickered to Jon Snow. “He is not my mother’s child, but he is my father’s son.”

Daenerys looked at him for a moment. “Robb, we have known each other well for many years now, have we not?” Robb nodded, wringing his hands and shifting from foot to foot uneasily. “Yet you never mentioned your brother to me.”

“Dany, believe me, I _wanted_ to tell you, but my mother would have had my head if she found out you knew.”

“Robb!” Her voice rose, incredulity lacing every syllable. “How _could_ you?”

“Your Grace,” Jon Snow’s low voice cut through her tirade, drawing her attention. “I am grateful for your indignance on my part, but I must inform you that my brother has spent much of his life fighting with his mother about my status.”

“Dany,” Missandei said placatingly. “You mustn’t raise your voice so.” 

She squeezed her eyes shut and took in a steadying breath. 

“Dany,” Robb pleaded, stepping forward and taking her hand. “I didn’t want to hide it from you, I swear.” 

She clenched her hand around his and opened her eyes to glare at him. “If I am permitted to come to Winterfell, know that you and I will be having a long conversation.” 

He nodded enthusiastically, eyes still wide and imploring. “Of course.” 

“Then,” She pulled her hand free and slapped his shoulder twice, “Missandei and I shall return to the festivities before our absence is noticed.” 

The awkwardness of the situation was suffocating her, and she needed a moment of quiet to process what she had learnt. 

“Tyrion should be halfway through his speech now,” Robb said helpfully, wincing when he was tossed a fiery look. 

She spared Jon Snow one last look, frowning when she found him staring back at her, a glimmer of — _something_ in his eyes.

The moment their eyes met he bowed his head. 

Her frown deepened, but Missandei tugged her away, leading her back up the stairs and into the hot ballroom, where Tyrion was halfway through a raunchy Lord Byron verse, ladies shrieking with horror as he threw his arms out and half the contents of his glass rained over them. 

“Oh do come down Tyrion,” Princess Tyrell snapped, whacking him on the back with her fan, interrupting a particularly crude gesture, “Muster some sense of shame.” 

Tyrion wobbled dangerously on his perch, drawing gasps from the more dramatic, but Jaime materialised at his side and prevented injury. 

“Your Majesty, I thought you liked my poetry!” Tyrion half-slurred, refusing his brother’s help, shimmying down with the deftness of a sober man. 

Olenna sneered, “Certainly not.”

Daenerys buried her smile in a cough, thankful that his antics had clearly prevented anyone from noticing their absence. 

“Your Grace.” 

Well, almost everyone. 

“Duchess,” She greeted, “You look stunning.” 

It was true — the brilliant red of her ornate gown brought out the pink tinge in Brienne’s cheeks, a striking contrast to her shock of gold hair. 

Brienne shifted awkwardly, “Thank you, Your Grace.” 

“You are an exceptional beauty,” Missandei breathed, looking up at her with starry eyes, “The Duke is a very lucky man.” 

Brienne flushed, her face and neck turning red. “I — Thank you, Miss Naath.” 

Missandei practically glowed, smile splitting her face in half. “Not at all.” 

After coughing to clear her throat, Brienne straightened out her face, red fading to pink, “I noticed you left suddenly with the Duke of Winterfell. Is everything alright?”

“Certainly,” Daenerys was at loath to disclose Robb’s familial issues, even to one of the only people she trusted, “He simply wished to invite the two of us up to Winterfell.” 

Brienne clearly did not believe her, but instead of prodding she simply nodded. “If you are permitted, please inform me. I would like to accompany you both.” 

“We would be honoured,” Missandei jumped in, sensing the refusal on the tip of her tongue. “It has been too long since we have spent time together.” 

The flush crept back up Brienne’s neck. “I can only apologise for that. I have been rather busy these few months.” 

“Ah, but I am an excellent thing to be busy with, am I not?” 

The sight of Jaime Lannister never failed to set her teeth on edge, made all the worse by his arm snaking around Brienne’s waist and tugging her close. She bit the inside of her cheek harshly, preventing her upper lip from curling in disgust. 

He glanced at her briefly, surveying her up and down like she was no more than an insect. He had no problem curling _his_ lip at her, turning away to smile radiantly at Brienne. 

Daenerys gritted her teeth. 

There was little else she would like to do more than crush him underfoot. 

“Darling, I need you.” His tone dripped with honey and warmth. 

Brienne ducked her head shyly and nodded, a strand of hair escaping a pin and falling over her forehead. Before she could tuck it back herself, Jaime beat her to it, fingers delicate and tender. 

A modicum of her fury lessened. 

The one thing that kept her from expressing her disdain for the man was Brienne’s obvious affection for him, and the love he clearly felt for her. If there was anyone worthy of happiness, it was Brienne. 

“Then, Your Grace,” Brienne bowed her head, and smiled at Missandei, “Miss Naath. Please tell me of your plans as soon as you make them.” 

“Certainly.” 

Jaime swept her away, and from the back even she could admit that the two of them made a stunning couple, even if they were so opposite in personality. 

“Brienne, coming to Winterfell with us,” Missandei said wistfully, “How wonderful.” 

Daenerys let out a breath of air, something that resembled a laugh. Brienne had been Missandei’s hero since she had watched her fence, admiration increasing when she watched her talk to men fearlessly. 

Her humour was all but swallowed by the thought of the conversation she was going to have with Viserys.

“If we are even given leave to travel.” She said grimly, “He thinks he is close to reaching an agreement with Drogo.” 

Missandei shuddered, revulsion crawling over her face. 

“Ah, if it isn’t the little Targ,” Petyr Baelish swanned over to them, cradling a glass of wine, “And her _halfling.”_

Every hair on her arm stood to attention, a cold feeling slipping down her back. “I am not sure we have much to discuss, sir.” 

“On the contrary,” Baelish’s lips curled up into an approximation of a smile, “Your brother and I have a number of very important business dealings. He assured me that whilst he could not attend tonight, you and your… _companion_ would be more than happy to entertain me.” 

Daenerys gave him her sweetest smile, flexing her hand at her side, “I regret to inform you, sir, that I have been kept out of the business and could not possibly entertain you with anything related.” 

“Oh,” Baelish pouted, “How unfortunate. I shall have to teach Viserys the error of his ways.” He leant closer to her, lips snaking into a snarl, “I am quite progressive, see. I believe women should be involved with all areas of business. My,” He pressed a hand to his chest in faux-outrage, “One must consider the merits of stopping all transactions with such a conservative fellow.” 

She sucked in a breath, rage boiling away in the pit of her stomach. 

How many times had she told Viserys to be careful of the men he dealt with? Petyr Baelish was the worst of the worst; even Tyrion only dealt him when there were absolutely no other options. 

“She’s simply being polite, Baelish,” Tyrion piped up, appearing suddenly, golden eyes full of mirth, “The Duchess deals only with me; the Duke was quite strict about that.” 

The breath left her lungs in a slow stream. She was half surprised that it wasn’t smoke, the fire hotter and brighter than it had been in months.

Once again, she was grateful for Tyrion and his clear favour for her. If Baelish had said another word to her, she wasn't sure she would be able to contain herself.

Baelish looked down his nose at Tyrion, “Perhaps. Where is your sister, Lannister? Has she come down with something?” 

Tyrion sipped from his replenished glass contemplatively, “I must admit I am not certain. She did not see it fit to inform me beyond it being a personal matter.” 

“How convenient,” Baelish said scornfully, turning his gaze elsewhere and spying Varys watching a conversation between Margaery and Loras Tyrell. “I bid you adieu.”

They watched as he snaked his way through the crowd, as slippery as an eel. 

“He is snake,” Missandei spat, uncaring of their company.

Tyrion took another sip and swilled it around his mouth as though he was ridding himself of a nasty taste. “I couldn’t agree more.” 

“I don’t suppose you can tell us now is a perfectly polite time to leave, could you?” Daenerys said glumly, the desire for more than a single glass of bubbles mounting. 

“Give it another hour, Your Grace,” Tyrion remarked grimly, “Try to stick a little closer to Stark, for your own sake.” 

She refrained the urge to roll her eyes, taking Missandei’s arm again. “Duly noted, my Lord.” She said dryly, leading them to where she had last seen Robb. 

As they walked, they watched by most they passed, their expressions ranging from curiosity to disgust. 

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. 

It had been two years since she had attended a ball, three since a ball in the South. She attended dinners Robb invited her to, but only after repeated assurances that no one of great importance would also attend. She missed no part of such festivities, but perhaps the part she loathed the most was the judgment from others. 

The whispers followed them, increasing in their fervour and excitement with every step they took. It was easy to understand how Viserys had been driven to madness, meant to be higher than them all but regarded as the lowest. 

Not for the first time, she wished he could have come up with another way of reintroducing her to society before she was married to Khal Drogo. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have come with you,” Missandei fretted suddenly, “His Grace said I would shame you.” 

“You could never shame me,” She hissed, tightening her hold on Missandei, “These fools are shaming themselves.”

Though there had been plenty wrong with her school in the East, the one thing that they weren’t was racist, allowing elites from all families to intermingle. In Westeros, they allowed their contempt into the open, and Daenerys hated them all more for it. 

Missandei was of noble blood, a line more ancient than a large number of new elites in the room. That she was looked down on because of her skin colour made her see red. 

Luckily, Robb had spotted them coming and met them halfway, cheerfully offering her his arm once again before she could hit someone in the nose. As soon as she tucked her hand into the crook, they began to avert their eyes. 

_Money hungry racist bastards,_ she thought bitterly. 

Robb had managed to find himself another quiet corner and stood with his back to the crowd, facing them with a scowl. “I didn’t see Baelish until he was walking away.” 

She waved a hand, swiping his glass from the table he had left it on and downing the whole thing as discreetly as she could. “That devil was always going to find a way to corner me.”

“Coward,” Robb ground out. His eyes flicked to Missandei, who was pale. “Are you alright, Miss Naath?”

Missandei shook her head, “I shall never come to a ball again,” She decided, “Not even if my Lady begs me to.” 

“Not even if the ball is in Winterfell?” 

Surprised by the sudden question, Missandei ducked her head. “If Your Grace invited me, and it was in the North, I would not say no.” 

Daenerys practically had to shade her eyes from the blinding beam of Robb’s happiness. 

“I shall keep that in mind,” He said joyously. 

_Every cloud,_ she thought to herself, looking between her two friends. 

She found herself an accessory again, hanging uselessly between the conversation that flowed between Robb and Missandei naturally. Her eyes wandered, and it wasn’t long before she found Jon Snow again.

He was seated and had a small glass of spirits clutched tightly in hand. His expression was still black, and though a few ladies paused to look him up and down, he was quickly passed over in favour of more pleasant gentlemen. 

The more she watched him, shoulders tense, hair left in loose curls around his face, the more she mulled over his true identity. 

She had made many visits to Winterfell throughout her life. Aside from the years when she was sent away for school, barely a year or two passed before Robb asked her North, yet not once in all those years had she ever caught wind of another boy their age, let alone a hidden sibling.

Robb’s father, Eddard, had not been a particularly sociable man, and she had seen him only once or twice before he died. His mother, Catelyn, was a kind if removed woman, though changed much after her husband’s death. 

His siblings were all lovely, polite, dear things. Her favourite was Arya, as her spirited nature and determination reminded Daenerys of herself, but all five had a place in her heart. 

Not one had slipped up in more than twenty years. 

She knew little of Jon Snow and his circumstance — where he had been raised, where he had been educated, if his siblings had grown up with him — but it was enough for her heart to ache. Society was often more burdensome than not, and enough to drive one to madness, yet being kept away out of shame hurt terribly. 

As though he had heard her pity, he suddenly looked up and met her eyes. 

For a moment, she was paralysed by the strength of his gaze. It seemed to pin her to the spot and look right through her. 

Now that she was aware of who he was, she could see that he resembled both Eddard and Arya Stark very strongly, from his dark eyes to his bone structure. Most women claimed that Robb was an exceptional man, but she was sure she had never seen a male beauty equal to Jon Snow. 

He nodded his head and looked back over the party. 

She was left curiously short of breath, cheeks hot, still wondering just who on earth he was.

Her trance was broken by Missandei’s gentle hand on her arm, drawing her back to her friends. Both were looking at her inquisitively, and it became very clear that she had missed a question. 

“Sorry,” She mumbled, shaking her head slightly, “I lost myself.” 

“You don’t look well,” Missandei worried, “Perhaps decorum has to be put to one side.” 

She waved a hand, trying to perk up. “No, no, it’s quite alright. What did I miss?” 

It appeared they had begun making plans for their possible trip up to Winterfell, despite the fact that she wasn’t confident about Viserys giving his permission. 

He had proudly stated that as soon as the deal with Khal Drogo was closed, he would set sail for Westeros and they would be married within the month. Drogo had all the money needed to bolster the family fortune, and she had a title to bolster Drogo’s status in Westeros. 

If she was in Winterfell when Drogo docked, it was likely that the deal could be upset, and Viserys would not have that. 

“Oh, and I want to take you both through the forest again. We built a treehouse for Arya and Rickon and the local children to play in.” 

She lit up despite herself, “A treehouse?”

Robb waggled his eyebrows, _“Precisely_ identical to the one we wanted.” 

When she and Robb were children, they had grand plans for a treehouse in their favourite tree, deep in the forest around Winterfell. They had both drawn elaborate building plans, and each time the groundskeeper was unfortunate enough to cross their path, they begged him to build it for them. He was a grumpy thing, and each time they chased after him, promising all kinds of things in return, he would retreat into his cottage and slam the door. 

There was just something so enchanting about the forest, and though their wish was never granted, they didn’t stop asking until they were both sent away for school. 

“They are so lucky,” She said wistfully, thinking of the many dreams she’d had as a child, imagining her life away from home, living in the forest with only Robb and the animals to keep her company. 

“It’s big enough for us to climb into,” Robb said proudly, “I made sure of it.” 

“Don’t worry too much,” Missandei said tenderly, taking her hand, “Viserys will allow us to go.” 

With thoughts of a treehouse and a steady breath in, she was more willing to believe it, her mood considerably lifted. 

“And if he doesn’t,” Robb added cheerfully, “I’ll just kidnap you.”

In unison, she and Missandei gave him a searing look. 

He giggled like a schoolboy and raised his hands in surrender, “I jest! I jest.” 

“I hate to interrupt such a lively conversation,” Tyrion said, walking up with some urgency, “But your carriage has returned, Duchess.” 

Her spine stiffened and Missandei’s grip on her hand became painful.

Robb’s smile fell off his face, replaced by a deep frown. “On whose orders?”

“The Duke’s, Stark. Best you don’t interfere in family matters.” 

“Well,” She said, strengthened by the steadiness of her voice, “We will take our leave then.” 

Robb’s face was lined with worry. “I will send the telegram the moment I get home.” 

She forced a smile. 

It was very likely that Khal Drogo had agreed to Viserys’ terms and had already set sail for Westeros. The scope of her life was becoming smaller by the minute. The prospect of seeing the treehouse of her childhood dreams faded steadily. 

“I hope we see you again soon.” 

Robb’s eyes were full of determination. “You will.”

 _That was that then,_ she thought, following Tyrion out to the foyer, and accepting his kiss on her hand with a gracious smile, _the last ball I shall attend as an unmarried woman._

As she was helped into the carriage by a tall footman, her mind turned to Jon Snow, of his brooding stare, of the mystery surrounding his circumstances. 

“His Grace will come up with something, Dany,” Missandei assured her quietly as the carriage set off, “It will be alright.” 

She looked out of the window, at the still streets and thought about the life she could have had if she had been permitted to stay in a treehouse somewhere.


	2. Kingslanding

The small, rickety house was silent but for occasional groans as the wind moved. 

To Daenerys, it felt like every step creaked, and that the candle she gripped in hand burned brighter than the sun. Everything, down to the heartbeat thundering in her ears, signalled her approach to Viserys before she even turned into his corridor. 

Nonetheless, his office door remained firmly shut, the soft glow of candlelight peeking through the cracks between the door and the doorframe her only indication that he was awake. 

When she lifted her hand to knock, she cursed the slight tremor, willing her inner dragon to life. 

_He may be the son of dragons,_ she thought to herself, taking a deep breath, _but you are the daughter of dragons._

With that thought, she knocked. 

“Enter.” 

She pushed the door open carefully, “You asked for me?” 

Viserys looked up from his pile of papers spread over his small desk. His hair was a state, curling around his ears and sticking up at the crown of his head. Dark circles lined his eyes and his hands were stained with ink. 

He was a mess. 

“Oh for the Gods’ sake, quit dallying,” He snapped, “Shut the door.” 

She did as she was bid, setting her candleholder down on the dresser next to the door and taking the seat in front of him carefully. 

“How was the ball?” He asked, dipping his pen into a pot of ink and continuing his scribbles with a single-minded determination. 

“It was pleasant,” She replied, wincing when his jaw clenched. 

“I ask not of the dancing nor the dresses nor the fucking drink, Dany,” He spat, tossing his pen down, “I ask of the _men_ and what they thought of our family.” 

“Lord Tyrion was pleasant,” She began, stumbling over her words slightly, “As was the Duke of Winterfell, and Duke Lannister. I only had a brief conversation with Mr Baelish before he became aware that I knew nothing of the business between you two.” 

“You did not think it prudent to entertain him with other matters?” 

“He was not interested in frivolous talk, brother.” 

Viserys sat back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “Of course not. What did I tell you, sweet sister? Baelish is a man of culture and business.” 

She frowned, unable to keep her opinion to herself. “I still do not think it wise to associate with him. Lord Tyrion said he only uses Baelish when he is desperate.” 

“Your naivety never fails to astound me,” He said scornfully, “Obviously Lannister is aware that Baelish is an invaluable partner. He wants him for himself.” 

“I do not think Lord Tyrion would lie to me.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t, but he clearly has. Baelish invested money when all others turned their noses up at us, sister. He wants the restoration of Targaryen name just as much as we do.” 

“But —”

“Enough!” Viserys cut her off, lead filling his tone. “I do not need your opinion. What else?”

She swallowed.

“The Duke of Winterfell has asked me to come North. He claims that he has a number of ventures he would like to discuss with me.”

His eyes narrowed. “And why would Stark want _you_ and not me?” 

“He knows that you are busy with deals in the East. I am the only person he says he can trust to relay his message to you in its entirety.” 

Viserys steepled his hands under his chin, arrogance colouring his demeanour. There was nothing he liked more than his superior status being acknowledged, especially by those who had money and prospects. 

“To the best of your estimation,” He began, fixing her with a look, “How much would Stark’s business be worth to me?” 

“If my friendship with him is to be considered —”

Viserys slammed his hand down on his desk, making her jump and lower her eyes. 

“Your _friendship_ with the little lord has nothing to do with business. I know you are a woman, sweet sister, but _try_ not to let your feminine urges get in the way of reporting to me.” 

She swallowed her reply.

“Listen to me well, sister. When our parents lived, the Starks scraped and bowed and gave up their manor so you could be comfortable frolicking around with their son. They desired a marriage, but when our house fell,” He crumpled up a sheet of paper, face turning an unhealthy shade of puce, “All such talk stopped. You may think Stark is your friend, but he cares not a whit for us.”

“He does.” 

The words burst out of her before she could stop them, falling between them with defiance she almost wished she could retract. 

Viserys was still a moment, eyes black where they bored holes into her head. Abruptly, he threw his chair back with a crash and stood, rounding the desk with the gait of a predator. He took her jaw in hand and wrenched her head up to look at him. 

“What was that?” He demanded, voice as smooth as silk. 

Her eyes watered but she blinked hard, trying to wake her dragon. It spluttered and coughed, as feeble as it always was in front of Viserys. “He cares.” She managed, “For me.” 

His mouth twisted into a cruel, humourless smile. “What is this? _Love?_ For the _Stark_ boy?”

She was silent, heart hammering. 

His grip tightened. 

“His family crawled on their _knees_ before our parents. They salivated over the prospect of marriage.” He leant closer, eyes bulging out of his head, “You will _never_ lower yourself to him. All Targaryens, even the weak ones like you, are born to dominate. The moment you marry outside the family, your blood becomes mud.” 

“I wish not to marry him,” She choked, “He is my friend.” 

“You are not permitted to have friends!” Viserys roared, “You are a Targaryen. You can have no one but me.” He punctuated his last word by throwing her aside, the force of it sending the chair toppling backwards.

She crashed to the floor, air punched out of her. Quickly, she rolled onto her side before he could attack again, but luckily he stepped away, shaking his head like an agitated dog.

With a shaky hand, she inspected the damage done to her jaw, wincing behind the curtain of her hair so he got no satisfaction from her pain. 

When she peeked up again, he had his back to her, looking out of the small window above his desk. His hands were clasped behind his back, his grip so tight his skin was turning white. 

“The savage refuses to close. He asks for more every time I write. If Father was alive, he would never stand for insolence from such a creature.” 

She closed her eyes, tuning out the throbbing pain in her jaw and conjuring the soft memory of her mother’s calm temper. “You will be successful, brother. You always are.” 

He nodded manically, “I always am. I have taken good care of us, haven’t I?” 

“Yes,” She breathed, “You have taken very good care of us.” 

He took in one last steadying breath and straightened his shoulders. 

“Get up,” He barked dismissively, turning back to his desk and retrieving his chair. It was as though his outburst had never occurred, scene returning to the way it was when she walked in. “A trip North will not be permitted. I cannot stand the Stark boy's influence over you.” 

She collected herself, rising and picking the chair up, noticing with a wince that the back of it was cracked in two. No doubt that would be taken out on whatever maid he'd managed to procure for the week. “I shall take my leave.” 

He waved a hand, already absorbed back into his papers, head down as she collected her candle and shut the door behind her. 

The walk back to her room passed in a haze, traitorous tears spilling over each time she wiped them away. 

A trip North was a faint glimmer of hope, one that she knew was unlikely to come to fruition, even with Robb’s support and the prospect of Viserys’ financial gain. Yet despite herself, she had begun to wish, just a little, that her brother would peer through the madness for a moment and permit it.

Missandei was waiting for her by their door, arms wrapped around her torso. 

She took one look at Daenerys and bundled her into the room, relieving her of the candle as she did. 

As she changed into her nightgown, she tried to pull herself together. Her fingers shook too much to secure her silk wrapping, so Missandei had to step in, fingers quick and nimble. 

She crawled into the bed, sniffling to herself, lids too heavy to keep open.

When Missandei finished readying herself and climbed in, Daenerys huddled into her side, pressing her cheek onto her shoulder. 

“There will be no trip.”

Missandei hummed softly, reaching over to pat her arm soothingly. “We shall just have to find other ways to entertain ourselves.”

“I’m sorry,” She whispered, guilt crawling up her throat, “I know you wanted to spend time with —”

“Dany,” Missandei said fiercely, “None of this is your fault.” 

The words only made the tears resurface, hands shaking until Missandei took them, holding her tightly. 

“Tomorrow we shall take a walk,” She said, voice low and calm, “We will breathe in the fresh air, and buy salve for your jaw.” 

Daenerys could manage no more words, sinking into her friend. 

After a moment of silence, Missandei took in a breath.

“We could drop in on Mr Barristan, if you wish.”

Selmy Barristan. 

He was her mother’s oldest and dearest friend, and his family had served hers since before the West had been discovered. Along with Willem Darry, he did his best to help her and Viserys avoid starving after the death of their parents and Rhaegar. 

When Viserys became of age, he threw Mr Barristan out, ranting and raving about his evil intentions. She barely had the chance to say goodbye. They were only reunited a year or two ago, when she ran into him by coincidence. 

Despite Viserys’ belligerent distrust of him, she thought Mr Barristan was a good man. He had helped many in his years as a barrister, and all who knew of him spoke highly of his manner. When he welcomed her into his practice, he’d told her over tea that if she was ever in need of his help, he was only a letter away. 

She shook her head. 

“It is not so bad that he should be bothered.” 

“I disagree.” 

She snuggled in closer, wincing when her jaw throbbed. “We have a few weeks left. I would like to spend them with you, not in a stuffy office only to be told nothing can be done.” 

Missandei met her words with silence, grip on her hands tightening. 

It took her a long time to fall asleep, but Missandei did not let her go. When she blinked awake, she found that despite her twisting and turning, her right hand was still clutched in Missandei’s. 

Her friend was still lost to sleep, face smooth and mouth slack. 

As Daenerys watched her slowly come to, she thought that there was no way to thank her for all that she had given her. 

When they had finished their schooling in Essos, Missandei had chosen to journey back to Westeros with her, leaving behind her two sisters and mother, promising that she would return in a few years. 

The prospect of her union with Khal Drogo loomed ominously over her head, but nothing made her more dark and heartbroken than the knowledge that with her marriage, she would lose Missandei.

There was nothing more terrifying than the thought of a life without her dearest friend.

“What are you staring at?” Missandei grumbled, eyes still shut, blindly swatting with her free hand. 

“Your pretty face.” 

Missandei snorted, blinking slowly until her eyes focused. “That isn’t free, my Lady.” 

“How much are you charging?” 

“Six hundred per minute.” 

Daenerys gasped in faux-shock, “My, I had no idea I was looking upon such a fine work of art.” 

Missandei’s response came in the form of a pillow hitting Daenerys in the stomach, prompting peals of laughter from them both.

After such a long time spent crying, laughing felt wonderful. 

“Alright,” Missandei gasped, releasing her hand and throwing the covers off, “To the chemist.” 

When they left, the house was dark and still. 

Viserys was likely passed out over his papers, sleep coaxed by a bottle of spirts. He cycled through maids, but he could only afford those willing to work for close to nothing, or service that began late in the morning and ended early after noon. 

The oppression cloaking the house lifted as they stepped out into the sunshine, fresh air filling their lungs. They walked arm in arm, relishing the mostly deserted streets, going mostly unnoticed by busy smallfolk as they rushed from job to job. 

Occasionally she caught sight of her reflection in a window and she would try not to flinch. Though Missandei had managed to dig up the largest bonnet they owned and the ribbon was tied higher than usual, the bruises were already dark and the highest could not be hidden.

She should have been more careful. 

Viserys had grown more erratic as the deal with Khal Drogo had dragged on. Reply after reply, Khal Drogo insisted that the title of Targaryen was not equal to the amount of money he would have to pay Viserys for it. With each letter returned, he drank more.

Really, it was no wonder he had lashed out so viciously at her mention of Robb; even before the deaths that split their family in two, he had never liked the Starks or the North. 

“Oh, Mr Tarly is in,” Missandei said happily, pushing open the door to the chemist. Daenerys followed her in, ducking her head and preoccupying herself with examining the various bottles on the shelves. “Good morning, Mr Tarly.” 

“Good morning, Miss Naath! What can I do for you?” 

Missandei was pulled into conversation with the joyful Samwell Tarly and Daenerys took his distraction as an opportunity to round a set of shelves, hidden from the counter entirely. In her haste, she ran straight into someone, colliding with them hard. She gave a quiet yelp and sprang back, eyes wide. 

To her utter shock, Jon Snow looked down at her, his eyes just as wide as hers. 

“Mr Snow,” She managed, “How delightful to see you.” 

Her voice seemed to knock him out of his stupor, and he lowered his torso in a bow, ducking his head. “Your Grace.” She responded in kind, her curtsey half of his depth. When he straightened, his gaze caught on her face and his brow crumpled into a frown. “Your face,” He gestured to his own jaw, “What happened?” 

“Ah,” She smiled awkwardly, tugging on the ribbon under her chin, “I had an accident on my way home.” 

His frown deepened. “Sam will have something for the bruises.” 

She nodded, struggling to suppress the urge to shuffle from foot to foot. “Miss Naath and I have come for that very purpose.” 

Jon Snow nodded, frown still fixed in place, eyes flitting between each side of her jaw. 

She cleared her throat awkwardly, unable to stand the weight of his gaze.

“When are you to return to Winterfell, Mr Snow?” 

His eyes lifted to hers and — that was worse. 

The colour of them was extraordinary. When she had first met him, she thought that they were merely black, or so dark brown they appeared black. Now, in the light of the morning, she could see that they were dark grey. 

“I no longer reside in Winterfell,” He said. As he shaped his words, Daenerys could hardly help a quick glance at his lips, her mouth going dry when the tip of his tongue peeked out momentarily. “I live further North, closer to the Wall.” 

“I see,” She scolded herself for the weakness of her voice, “What do you do?” 

“I am a carpenter, Your Grace.”

_That explains your exquisite physique, then._

The thought flashed over her brain so quickly she barely had the chance to flush, cursing herself for such lewd thoughts over a man she had only just met the night before — a man who happened to be Robb’s _secret brother,_ no less! 

“Dany,” Missandei poked her head around the shelves and startled at the sight of Jon Snow. “Oh, Mr Snow.” 

Jon gave her a bow, “Miss Naath. I was just speaking to Her Grace about her injuries.”

Missandei stiffened. “My Lady, I fear we will be wanted by His Grace if we are gone too much longer.” 

The thought of Viserys flying into another rage brought her back to earth with a jolt. Though he wasn’t usually so worried about a walk or two, he had become harder to predict. 

“Of course,” She gave Jon Snow a small curtsey, “Then, Mr Snow.” 

He bowed again, expression pensive.

When she rounded the shelf, she noticed Samwell Tarly staring at them strangely and averted her eyes. It was only when they got to the door that she remembered Robb and his offer. Her stomach filled with dread, but she turned. “Mr Snow, you will have pass on our regrets to the Duke. We cannot journey to Winterfell with him.” 

Jon Snow’s expression did not change. He simply nodded his head and watched them as they left the shop and stepped into the sunlight. 

Missandei’s grip on her was tight. “Are you alright?” 

She felt short of breath and oddly sick. Jon Snow was the oddest creature she had ever come across.

“Of course.”

The streets were more busy now, as the lords and ladies of Kingslanding began to complete their errands, careful to keep a distance from the two of them. Their gazes did not glide over, as the smallfolks' did, but floated over with purpose. 

By the time they reached the little villa, Daenerys was more relieved than anything else. 

The door was opened by a maid, one Daenerys hadn’t met yet. “Yes?” 

“Hello, I am the sister of Duke Targaryen.” 

The girl’s expression didn’t change, she merely stepped back to allow them to enter. Despite the poor manners, Daenerys couldn’t find it within herself to be offended — the girl likely made barely enough to feed herself. 

The moment she stepped into the house, a familiar voice let out a forced chuckle, freezing her in place. Her head whipped around, staring at Missandei with wide eyes. 

“It’s Robb,” Missandei breathed, looking equally shocked. 

“What on earth is he doing here?” She hissed, handing her coat to the bored maid. 

Missandei gasped suddenly, dropping her bag on the entrance table and lifting her hands to cover her mouth. “Your face!”

Her hand flew up to touch her jaw, mouth dropping open.

“Oh no.”

“Your Grace,” The maid announced, sending them an impatient look as she pushed the living room door open, “The ladies have returned.” 

“Send them in,” Viserys ordered impatiently, the sound of china against china amplified in the strangled silence of the hallway. “You see, Stark? I told you my sister would be back shortly.” 

“Indeed you did, Your Grace.” Robb said graciously, voice calm but for the undercurrent Daenerys was sure only she could hear. It was the same tone he used whenever the Lioness cornered him at a ball, hands clenched into fists behind his back. 

She entered the room, shoulders back, chin up, spine straight. She knew well that the bruising on her jaw would be like waving a red flag to a bull, and she could only hope that Robb would endure it. 

He stood as she swept into the room, and though she avoided eye contact, she could still feel the fury pouring off him in waves. 

“Good morning,” She said, “I am sorry I was not here to greet you, I did not expect that you would pay us a visit.” 

“Of course he would,” Viserys scoffed, still sitting, “The Stark and Targeryen families have been friends for decades, have we not?” 

She inclined her head, waiting for Missandei to join her by the couch opposite Robb before she sat. Even though she could feel his eyes on her, she refused to look at him, diverting her gaze to Viserys.

“Our friend,” Viserys said, looking like the cat who had got the cream, “Has just told me of his textile business in the North. He is _very_ interested in our participation.” 

“That sounds very beneficial to us,” She said slowly, digging her nails into her palms, “What would the Duke gain from our input?” 

“Stark’s business is in need of another noble family standing behind it.” 

“I would be grateful for your help,” Robb added, voice steady, “Though I understand that a trip North to inspect the business would be needed before anything can be agreed upon.” 

“Daenerys would be more than happy to accompany you,” Viserys dismissed, “I cannot leave Kingslanding at present, but rest assured I trust her judgement totally.”

Robb nodded his head thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his knee. “I am scheduled to leave tomorrow at midday. There is more than enough room in my carriage for both Her Grace and Miss Naath.” 

Viserys’ eyes glinted with glee, no doubt ecstatic at cutting costs. “You are too generous, Stark.” 

“Not at all.”

Robb’s voice was devoid of warmth. Viserys didn’t seem to notice, lifting his cup and taking a sip of tea, no doubt contemplating just how much he could squeeze from Robb. 

“How long will we be needed in Winterfell?” Daenerys asked, finally braving eye contact with Robb.

His eyes were icy, jaw clenched hard despite the relaxed way he was sitting. “The minimum will be two weeks, Your Grace.” 

Viserys sat up straighter, “I must add that this deal is very dependent on my sister, Stark. She must be ready to return South at a moment's notice.” 

Robb nodded, not removing his gaze from her. “As you wish, Your Grace.”


	3. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! i just wanted to thank everyone who has read this, left kudos or a nice comment. even though i haven't replied i seriously appreciate your kindness. it is the reason why i keep writing and (unfortunately) adding more chapters. thank you all so much!!
> 
> (the ages of the stark children [from rickon to sansa] have been lowered by ~nine years, just to make things make more sense in my head)

For all his glowering and brooding in the living room of the villa, Robb was all smiles and quick quips when he came to pick them up bright and early the next morning.

He did not mention Viserys’ absence other than a quick glance up at the silent villa. He did not comment on the lack of butler or maid — her screams about Viserys owing her money late last night before were followed by her storming out of the house and slamming the door behind her — instead lugging their shared case down the steps into the waiting arms of one of his footmen. 

When they were all in, she and Missandei pressed together from shoulder to hip due to the small space they were crammed in, he rubbed his hands together. “Shall we set off then?” 

“Will we be picking up Mr Snow?” She hoped her voice was casual, but if the look Missandei sent her was anything to go by, she had not succeeded.

Robb blinked, surprised. “No. He desires to stay a little longer. I tried to convince him last night, but he and my mother simply abhor each other. Though I am now in control of the estate, he is loath to cross paths with her.” 

She made a humming noise, trying not to make her disappointment too obvious. 

It was her last trip as a free woman; having a man as beautiful as Jon Snow around would certainly lift her spirits a little.

They called into the Tarth household briefly, only to be informed by a servant that Brienne had suddenly taken ill and could not journey with them, much to Missandei’s despondency. 

“What a shame,” Missandei sighed as they rode away, “I was very much looking forward to her company.” 

“I hope you will find mine an adequate substitute,” Robb offered, and if he had not seemed so serious Daenerys would have snorted. 

As it was, she turned to watch Kingslanding rush by, relishing the sight of the red and cream buildings fading into green countryside. With every tree, every sign post, she was carried further away from her future. 

She was mainly silent as they travelled, watching the landscape change, only occasionally tuning into Robb and Missandei’s conversation. 

He pointed out little landmarks, giving long-winded descriptions of them and how they related to the North or South. In between, he would regale her with tales of Daenerys as a child. In turn, he was delighted with stories of her at school. 

When the mocking became too much to ignore, Daenerys piped up with her own tales about each of them, to much blushing and whining. 

The colder the air became, the lighter her chest felt. 

Finally, when they left the last of the Neck behind them and the first traces of snow began to appear on the ground, she let out a whoop of a laugh and stuck her head out of the carriage window, screaming into the wind. 

“Gods be good Dany,” Robb laughed when she sat back down in her seat, “I know the South pales in comparison to the North, but I’ve never seen someone so happy to see snow in my whole life.”

She beamed at him, and at a bemused Missandei, “The North is as much my home as it is yours. I am simply,” She stuck her hand out the window, open and closing in an attempt to catch the freezing air, “Overjoyed at the sight of it.”

When she was not met with another jibe, she turned back into the carriage, chest full of warmth.

Robb was looking at her with misty eyes. “No matter what happens,” He said, voice shaky, “You will always have a home with us.” 

“Oh for the love of —” She groaned, pressing a hand over her eyes, hiding her own tears, “Robb, please, don’t start.” 

He sniffled and cleared his throat. “I am sorry, I know you don’t want to talk about it.” 

Blindly, she took his hand with her free one, proud that her tears had not fallen. “You have done all that you possibly could and more. This trip is a luxury I did not think I would be afforded.”

“I have not done nearly enough, and I will live the rest of my life with that.” 

“Robb,” She croaked, “Shut it.” 

He did as he was bid, squashing the tremor in her hand with his tight grip. 

Despite all the ill she had endured, he and Missandei were two of the brightest spots in her life. Without their friendship, she was not sure how she could have survived the many years without her mother and Rhaegar. 

She was not sure how she would survive the years ahead without them. 

“Alright,” Missandei said, bumping her shoulder against Daenerys’, “Enough of the crying.” 

“I am _not_ crying,” She said petulantly, getting a hard squeeze from Robb for her trouble. 

The flow of conversation resumed over her head, her only connection to it Missandei pressed against her and Robb’s grip on her hand. 

As they had for so many years, her friends grounded her. 

It wasn’t until they were only a few minutes from Winterfell that she managed to lift her head, sure that she was no longer seconds away from shaming herself. 

The sight of the countryside she had grown up in looming out the carriage window brought light into her lungs, and a joy particular to the sight of Winterfell’s round turrets emerging against the horizon. 

Home. 

For the past few years, it had felt like a very distant concept indeed. Viserys had neither the money nor goodwill to send her North, and though she and Robb had seen plenty of each other in his many trips South, the little Starks were a different story. 

As they got closer and closer, her mind wandered to Jon Snow. 

He had supposedly lived in Winterfell at the same time as she was visiting as a child. Whilst she and Robb were playing games, shrieking at the top of their lungs and annoying their governess, where was he?

Perhaps, if Eddard Stark had not been so ashamed of him and Catelyn Stark had not wanted to hide him away, they could have met as children. The thought filled her with the strange feeling she was quickly beginning to associate with Jon Snow, heat colouring her cheeks. 

“It’s Dany and Missi!” 

Arya’s frantic call snapped her out of her daydream and made the three of them burst into laughter, giddiness filling the small space. 

For the next week or two, she could put to one side her fears and worries about Viserys and Khal Drogo and focus on the joy of being back in Winterfell. If nothing else, the children would undoubtedly serve to be distraction enough. 

Once again, she stuck her head out of the window and, once she spied Arya, telescope in hand, waved. “Ahoy there sailor!” She called, giggling when Arya jumped up and down, waving her arms like crazy. 

“I told you they missed you,” Robb remarked fondly. 

“And I them,” She said truthfully, grinning when a tiny figure appeared at Arya’s elbow and began to wave too. “Gods I forget how small Rickon is.” 

“Mother reckons he shall shoot up and grow taller than me,” Robb’s tone was rueful, “Thank the gods that is a few years away yet. If Sansa's stature is anything to go by, he shall be something of a giant.” 

“It might do your ego some good, having him look down on you.” 

“My ego?” Robb spluttered, “ _My_ ego?” 

“You have always been big headed, Robb.” 

“ _I’m_ big headed? This, coming from the girl who ignored me for _two days_ after I beat her in one of twenty races?” 

“That was because you cheated.”

“Only because _you_ cheated every other time!”

The carriage jerked to a halt and before Robb could express any more outrage, she clambered out, jumping to the ground in a manner that was definitely less than ladylike. Her legs ached, stiff from being held in one position too long, but the crackle of the ground as it met the soles of her feet woke her nerves up. 

Arya quickly tackled her in a hug, cackling and singing joyously. “I have missed you unbearably.” 

She chuckled and hugged her back, pressing delighted kisses onto her head. “I would bet my life on my missing you more.” 

Arya pulled back, affronted. “It is unimaginably dull without you. Robb is terrible at remembering games and Rickon is awful to play with because he hates my rules.”

“Not true,” Rickon piped up, frowning, “You simply dislike it when I beat you.” 

In a move stunningly similar to her own, Arya ignored Rickon, letting go of Daenerys with a squeal and wrapping her arms around Missandei. 

To ease Rickon’s pout, Daenerys gave him a warm hug, resisting the urge to give him a kiss too. Though he was barely ten, she could already tell that he wanted to appear as much a man as possible, and receiving a kiss from a woman he was not related to likely would not go down well. 

Much to her delight, he squeezed her just as tightly as Arya had. “We really have missed you,” He mumbled, tipping his head up to look at her, “Truly.”

She smoothed his untamable curly locks off his forehead, smiling at him fondly. “I know. I’m sorry it took so long to come and see you again.”

He narrowed his eyes for a split second, a spitting image of his mother, before grinning sunnily. “If you play games with us, I shall forgive you.”

“Monster,” Robb scolded, using two fingers to push Rickon back from Daenerys, “I’ve not seen you in a month and this is how you greet me?” 

Obligingly, and with all the airs of someone being held at sword-point, Rickon gave him a quick hug before he took Daenerys’ hand and began to drag her towards the forest, a skip in his step. “Come, I want to show you the treehouse Robb made us.”

“Rickon, let her say hello to Bran and Mother first!” 

Rickon stopped in his tracks, threw his head back and let out a huge sigh, making Daenerys giggle. He gave her a look. “They have become even more boring since you were last here. Arya is the only fun one.” 

“It is still polite to greet them,” She reminded him, tugging on his hand, “I promise to make it quick.” 

He compiled without too much fussing, and, with Robb leading and complaining about the lack of attention he was being shown, she and Missandei climbed the stairs up into Winterfell. 

Bran was waiting by the door, a brilliant smile on his face. He looked much older, finally beginning to grow into his fine features. He had a new chair, this one more modern and more equipped to accommodate his gangly limbs comfortably. 

Unlike Arya and Rickon, whose clothes were dirty and worn, Bran had taken time to dress well, wearing a stiff white dress shirt, and a wonderful blue waistcoat and jacket set, looking every inch a dapper young gentleman.

“Hello Dany,” He said sunnily, reaching for her hand. She gave it to him with a bright grin, curtseying as he gave it a kiss. 

“Bran thinks he’s a gentleman now,” Rickon piped up, rolling his eyes. 

Bran flushed, “I am old enough to be considered one, Rickon. I’m not a _boy_ like you.” 

“Well,” Daenerys said, eager to mediate before a fight broke out, “I am delighted to know that at least one Stark has grown into a polite young man.”

Robb made a sputtering sound, but Missandei stepped forward before he could protest, offering her own hand to Bran, who flushed a brighter crimson as he took it. 

“Miss Naath.” He stuttered, giving her a quick kiss and dropping her hand, ducking his head. “It is lovely to have you in Winterfell again.” 

“It is lovely to see you, Bran.” 

“He thinks you beautiful, Missi,” It was Arya this time, her tone filled with mirth, “Let us go inside before he combusts.” 

“Arya!” Bran screeched, voice pitching high and wavering, “By the Gods you are the most —”

“Peace,” Robb soothed, a hand on Bran’s shoulder, “She means to annoy you, and yelling serves only to please her.” 

Usually, fighting and arguing made Daenerys’ hackles stand on end. 

After years of screaming and rage from Viserys, she was used to harsh words being followed by a punishment of some description, be it a withdrawal of food and company or a blow. Yet the bickering of the Stark children soothed her, and walking down the familiar halls of Winterfell arm in arm with Missandei, she couldn’t contain her smile. 

Though the sight of the open doors to the parlour did make her confidence shrink a little, Missandei’s fingers tapping her forearm and Arya’s lack of decorum gave her the strength to enter.

The room was just as beautiful as she remembered it being, with high windows, luxurious couches and gold detailing. She often bounced around it as a child, tugging on her mother’s hand, desperate for her attention. She could still see her, golden hair matching the paintwork, draped across one of the couches, bright laugh bouncing off the walls. 

Catelyn Stark was perched on the same sofa, hands folded tightly in her lap. Though Daenerys wasn't entirely sure, it seemed she had shrunk into herself since they had last met. She did not stand as they entered, led by Robb and his cheerful greeting, but she did give them a half-smile. 

“Your Grace,” She curtseyed low, uncomfortable in her presence. 

“I am pleased to have you in Winterfell, Daenerys,” Catelyn said warmly. “And it is a pleasure to see you as well, Miss Naath.” 

“I must thank you for hosting us in your home.” 

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed a fraction, “Winterfell and its estate belongs to my son. I can only be grateful he has no wife and allows me to continue residing with him.” 

“Mother, don’t be ridiculous,” Robb cut in, cheeks flushing. His mother was unique in her ability to dig her way under his skin. “No matter who I marry, I shall not remove you. I enjoy your criticism far too much.” 

“Besides, Robb adores me too much to see me leave,” Arya put on a long-suffering sigh, leaning into Missandei’s side, “I fear I shall be an old woman before he sees fit to give me away.” 

Robb snorted. “I think you take me for a fool. I know well enough that whatever you choose to do, my opinion will matter little.” 

Arya beamed. Catelyn tutted. 

Daenerys’ seemingly ever-present consciousness of Jon Snow thrust itself to the forefront of her mind. She had known Catelyn for as long as she could remember, but had never warmed up to her, the same way she had never warmed up to Eddard Stark. 

She thought of a young Jon Snow, shoved to the periphery of life by a cold woman betrayed by her cold husband. She thought of herself, after Mother and Rhaegar died, alone in a small house with Viserys, provided protection only by Barristan and old William. 

If only Robb was not so good at keeping secrets, perhaps she and Jon Snow would have —

“Is it alright if we take Dany and Missi out to the treehouse?” Rickon implored, poking his bottom lip out.

Catelyn drew in a breath. “Darling, it is polite to offer guests refreshments and rest after such a long journey. Besides, the sun will set in less than an hour. I am not sure a trek through the forest would be wise.” 

“It won’t take long,” Bran piped up, his contribution clearly surprising his mother. “We will only pop there and back.” 

Catelyn looked from Bran to Robb to Daenerys, expression unreadable. 

Daenerys suddenly remembered the bollocking that had been dolled out when they were only nine, after she had led Robb through a thicket of bushes and they had been scratched to bits. She had been convinced that they would find a dragon egg, if they could only make it through the thorns. It was only when Robb’s typical whining deteriorated into sniffling that she turned them back. 

Once they emerged, it felt as though not a single part of them was free of injury and, ever sensitive, Robb had begun to cry, overwhelmed by the sight of his bloody hands and arms. She, more resilient and used to pushing pain to the side, took his hand and tried to cheer him up, stopping to hug him when his cries turned into sobs.

Catelyn had screamed blue murder when she saw them, their neat white clothes stained red, Robb a blubbering mess, and she with a smile still painted on her face. She had been deemed a terrible influence, and was sent to her room without supper. It had been one of the last times Viserys permitted her to travel North. 

“As long as you are quick.”

As she was half-led half-dragged out of the parlour, she couldn’t help the stiffening of her spine. Perhaps Viserys’ words about the disgust the Starks felt for their family had some weight, if only with the matriarch. 

“What are you thinking of so deeply?” Missandei asked after all but Bran had ripped ahead, yelling and singing into the cool late afternoon air. 

“How much Robb used to cry as a child,” She said automatically, “I could say the slightest thing and he would burst into fits of tears.” 

Missandei looked out over the vast garden, to where Robb, Arya and Rickon were attempting to cartwheel and failing miserably. “His Grace does not seem the type to cry.” 

“I’ve never seen Robb cry,” Bran tilted his head to the side. “Not even when Father passed.” 

“Do not let his tough exterior fool you,” His letter informing her of his father’s sudden passing had been tear-stained and full of angry words. The next time they saw each other, he had refused to talk of it.“He is a very soft man.”

Robb’s next attempt sent him crashing onto his back, prompting Arya and Rickon to fall over each other laughing at him.

“He is something of a fool too,” Missandei pointed out dryly, “He will break an arm if he’s not careful.” 

She smiled brightly, “Perhaps that will teach him a lesson.” 

As though he could hear them, Robb clambered to his feet and hollered something unintelligible in their direction. Arya and Rickon joined in, though Daenerys suspected they were merely hooting rather than trying to communicate.

“I think we are being told that we are too slow,” Bran did not seem too put out by the suggestion that he was slowing them down, though her protective instinct was instantly provoked. 

“They are terribly impatient,” She groused, frowning at the three hooligans, still jumping around like monkeys. 

“Come, Dany,” Missandei took one of the handles of Bran’s chair, “Let us catch up with them.” 

Though she was still put out on Bran’s behalf, she did as she was bid, and together they managed to halve the distance in only a few moments. Bran giggled the whole time, pleased as punch though he was being bounced around something awful. It seemed that his awkwardness around Missandei decreased by the second. 

Robb, Arya and Rickon were waiting for them at the lip of the forest, all decidedly worse for wear. She couldn’t help wincing at the sight of Robb’s very expensive and fashionable clothes covered in grass stains and dirt. The waistcoat alone would pay for a month of expenses for Viserys, with coin left over for drink. 

“I must say,” Missandei panted, winded from their run across the gardens, “I have never seen three people fail quite so miserably at cartwheeling.” 

Arya beamed at her, as though her words were a compliment. “We have been learning for ages but we still can’t get it.” 

“It is not so difficult.” 

“Then you must become our teacher Missi,” Rickon said, “Robb claims to teach us but he is the worst at it.” 

“I object wholeheartedly to such a suggestion. I am sure I am the finest cartwheeler in all of the North. Now come on,” Robb took Bran’s handles, “At this rate we will not be back before dark, and that will mean heads will roll.” 

“Hopefully just yours,” She said cheekily, leading the way.

They walked in relative silence for a while, the forest swallowing the fading light of the day. The further in they ventured, the more peaceful she became. 

Even before she and Robb were permitted to roam by themselves, the forest had always felt like the one place in the world where she could truly become herself. There were no rules, no stern governesses, no shouted words. Just tall trees, bird song, and tranquility. 

“Doesn’t the forest frighten you?” Bran shivered, looking around at the huge trees dwarfing them on all sides. “Just a little?”

“Not me,” Her answer was quick and true. “Never.”

“That’s why you are my favourite,” Arya punctuated her words by whacking a tree trunk with a branch, “I am certain you have never been afraid of a single thing in your life.” 

“Not true. I am rather intimidated by your mother.” 

“Ah, but who isn’t? I shall not count that against your impeccable record.”

She smirked. “I thank you for your clemency, my Lady.”

“We’re nearly there,” Rickon announced, bouncing ahead, “I will see you at the top!” 

Her heart leapt into her mouth, nerves suddenly filling her stomach with butterflies; there was just something about her childish expectations that made her mouth dry. As a child, she dreamed of a towering structure, built into the largest tree in the world. The topmost branches brushed the roof of the sky, she lived amongst the wildlife, and had a room for her dragon. 

Though she knew such hopes were illogical, she still wondered if the treehouse would satisfy her inner child, or whether Robb’s imaginings had been entirely different than her own. 

True to Rickon’s word, only ten paces later the treehouse was revealed. 

“My word,” Missandei breathed, stopping in her tracks. 

It was certainly something to behold.

The tree it was cradled in was the largest tree they had seen thus far, with a trunk so massive she was sure that the six of them would not be able to circle it entirely, even if they worked together. She could not see the topmost branches, as they stretched beyond the canopy of leaves. 

The house was built in the middle of it, the configuration of the branches meaning that there was a natural platform to rest planks of wood upon. It was fairly high off the ground, and looked big enough for three people to live in comfortably. 

There was a ladder built into the trunk, as well as a complicated system of pulleys and ropes hanging over the most clear patch of ground. 

For a child who had wanted a room for her dragon, it came as close to perfect as was physically possible.

“You have outdone yourself.” 

Robb made a pleased noise, watching Arya and Rickon clamber up the ladder at a record pace, arms folded over his chest. “I tried to get it exactly the way we wanted, but I couldn’t quite work out enough space for a dragon and several direwolves, unfortunately.” 

Daenerys kissed her teeth. “Well, that changes my judgement of it entirely.” 

“You two are ridiculous,” Missandei giggled, making them both grin like idiots. 

Whilst they had been gabbing, Bran had wheeled himself under the ropes and, deftly, hooked himself up to them, in need of no assistance. Once he was tied in, he yanked on yet another rope, shooting them an excited grin as he did. Four sandbags toppled down from somewhere high up, and the force of their fall propelled him and chair into the air, coming to a stop at the lip of the platform. 

“By the Gods Robb, how did you work that out?” She asked wondrously, watching as Bran pulled himself onto the platform and untied himself.

“I have to confess it was not my genius but my brother’s. It is a passion of his to create such things to help Bran.” 

Jon Snow. 

Though she had spent so many years completely unaware of his existence, it seemed he stained every part of Winterfell.

How he had gone so unnoticed was a mystery. 

“He is certainly a fine engineer,” Missandei walked forward and resting her hands on the ladder, “Though I must admit entry would be a sight easier in trousers.” 

“I did not have enough foresight to have any on hand,” Robb admitted, as though that was some cardinal sin, “I shall turn away whilst you ascend, my lady.” 

Missandei shot her a look, taken aback by Robb’s seriousness to her light jibe. Daenerys just grinned, pleased that both her friends confused the living daylights out of each other. 

It took Missandei only a few moments to scale up, and she quickly followed.

If the outside of the treehouse was magnificent, the inside was stunning. Jon and Robb — and whoever else had helped — had taken care to create the feeling of a livable cottage. There were shiny wood panels, a large table and five chairs, and two doorways leading off to tiny little rooms.

When she pushed the door open to one, she revealed a tiny cot and large window, through which the leaves parted just enough to see Winterfell through. It looked partially lived in, with a coat tossed in one corner and a blanket on the coat. The other led to a similar room, though it was less furnished. 

“Robb,” She said curiously, “Does someone live here?” 

“Ah,” Robb looked around at his siblings, who had all suddenly frozen. “Uh, let’s — let us sit.” 

They gathered around the small fireplace — equipped with a chimney and a stack of wood — and once they were all comfortable on the floor, Robb cleared his throat. 

“One thing I should make clear,” He said, words uneasy, “Dany and Missandei were acquainted with Jon at the Lannister ball.” 

A solemn hush fell, the three youngest Starks looking like they had been caught in a particularly bad lie. Arya in particular looked consumed by shame, ducking her head to avoid eye contact. 

“He is a fine man, Jon Snow.” Missandei said gently, “I believe I speak for both Dany and I when I say my only gripe is that we were not permitted to meet him earlier.” 

That made Rickon’s bottom lip tremble. “We were told not to speak of him.” 

Missandei took his hand gently, eyes and tone soft. “It is alright.” 

“It’s not.” Bran’s voice was fraught with tension. “He loves us, but if there are others present, we are forbidden even from calling to him affectionately.”

Even Missandei couldn’t reply to that, and the silence rose, threatening to sweep them all away with it. 

“Well,” Robb’s words were tentative, “The people who matter the most sit here, now. Only Sansa and Jon are missing. Even though it is terribly unfair, we must take heart that now, we all know.” 

The atmosphere did not lighten until an impromptu tickle fight broke out, started either by Missandei or Rickon, she could not tell. Soon after, talking began again, along with laughter and teasing. Bit by bit, the tension crept away.

Arya showed them the hidden passageway to the roof, which she declared an excellent place to watch out for pirates. From there, it was possible to climb up even higher, as the branches were so big and steady. All in all, she had to declare it thoroughly excellent, and give Robb a hearty pat on the back. He pretended not to care a whit for her approval, even as his shoulders straightened and his chest puffed up.

Eventually, when the sun dipped too far under the horizon and the light crept even further away, they called it a day.

On the way back to the manor, as Missandei and Rickon raced ahead, and Robb pushed Bran at an alarmingly breakneck pace after them, Arya slotted her hand into Daenerys’. 

“You are equal in my heart.” 

She looked down, confused.

“You and Jon,” Arya grunted, eyes forward, “It is still true that I do not love anyone more than I love you, but he is your equal in my heart.”

She couldn’t get any words for a moment, could only focus on putting one foot in front of the other. When her voice returned, she bought herself more time to swallow the wobble by bringing Arya’s hand up to her face and kissing it. “I will do my best not to become jealous.” 

“Good.” 

With that, Arya ripped after the others, hair flying, arms pumping. She reminded Daenerys so much of herself it hurt her heart. She could only hope life would be kinder. 

She enjoyed her stroll back to the house, finally alone with her thoughts. 

Much had happened in the last week, and she was still struggling to process it all. From Viserys ordering her to attend a ball, to meeting Jon Snow to seeing the children again; it was more than had occurred in two years at the tiny villa in Kingslanding. 

Every other time massive changes happened in quick succession, she was bombarded by a volley of misfortune. 

At eight, she broke her arm climbing a tree. She could not write, nor swim, nor run for months, confined to a sling. Her father convinced her mother away with him and Rhaegar. She stayed in Winterfell, looking after toddling Sansa, until word arrived that all three had been killed in a shipwreck.

When she turned thirteen, she was visited in Kingslanding by the children for the first and only time. Eddard Stark brought them, even Bran, who was little more than a baby. She said her tearful goodbyes, and was shipped off to Essos a month after they returned to Winterfell.

Her eighteenth year brought her back to Westeros for the first time, Missandei at her side. That summer, Viserys hit her for the first time, manic and out of control. 

This time was different, however. Now, she could predict the misfortune to the letter; her marriage would be settled, Missandei would return to her family, and she would be locked away without love, light and friendship.

It seemed once her mind was occupied by such dark musings, she could not surface. Even as she entered the house, ears full of boasting and jeers, even as she walked with Missandei to their room, even as her hair was twisted up onto her head elaborately, her head remained clouded.

Her happiness, the only thing that really and truly belonged to her, was to be ripped away for financial gain. Her only hope would be to figure out how to manage her husband, how to live peacefully with him, how to keep him happy and —

“Daenerys, I can hear you thinking.” Missandei snapped her out of her daze as she fastened her hair in place with the final clip. “No more dour thoughts. I forbid it.” 

“How did you know I was thinking in a miserable fashion?” She teased, hoping to distract from the truth of her words. 

Through the mirror, Missandei fixed her with a look. “You are not as subtle as you hope to be. Up now, get into your gown.” 

Thoroughly cowed, Daenerys changed, fastening the gown herself as Missandei tended to her own hair. Her worries did not stop, despite Missandei's scolding, bubbling away in her mind. Just as she was about to spill her guts and ask for Missandei’s comfort, a short rap came on the door.

Expecting one of the children, she poked her head out and startled at the sight of a stout maid with a grey face, wringing her hands. 

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Her Grace wishes to have an audience with you in her study.” 

She blinked. “Why, of course. Just a moment.” 

Her mind kicked into overdrive as she pushed the door shut, imagining each reason why Catelyn would possibly bother to seek an audience with her. 

Missandei shot her an inquisitive look, halfway ready. “What is it?” 

“I have been called to the Duchess’ study.” She frowned to herself, picking up her earrings from the dresser, “I do not think I have ever been called there before.”

“Try not to suspect the worst,” Missandei chided, turning back to the fastenings of her dress, “Perhaps she intends merely to welcome you. We were quite brief in our greetings.” 

Catelyn Stark had never been one to care about what she had to say, let alone greeting her properly. Her ambivalence to her presence and displays of decorum were part of the reason Winterfell was a sanctuary for her.

She threaded the jewellery into her ears, cursing her shaking hands. “I cannot think of anything I have done wrong.” 

“Speak so and your conversation shall be stained with ill will,” Missandei turned and pushed her towards the door, “Stew any longer and your head shall fall off for all your speculating. Go now. It shall be over before you know it.” 

One last steadying breath and she turned the knob, smiling at the maid still waiting for her.

The maid lowered her eyes. 

“If Your Grace would follow me.” 

“Of course.”

The walk was quick. The closer she got to Catelyn's area of the house, the greyer the light became. Every other part of the house, even the poorly lit room the maids slept in, was welcoming. Here, life seemed to be sucked straight out of the air. 

When they stopped outside the door to the study, the maid curtseyed and rushed away, her skirts swishing as she went. It left Daenerys with a pool of dread in her gut.

She knocked tentatively and pushed the door open. “You called for me, Your Grace?” 

“Daenerys,” Catelyn still did not smile, gesturing to the chair opposite her chaise. “Please.” 

The dingy study was small and enclosed. Every step into it felt like the walls were shrinking around her. It had been a forbidden place when she was little, and though she had succeeded in breaking in once, it had simply been too boring to warrant a return. Nothing about it was familiar, an unusual feeling to have in Winterfell.

She sat obediently. The prickling on the surface of her skin intensified. 

Catelyn looked her up and down once and cleared her throat delicately. “You will have to excuse the rudeness of my children, Daenerys. They know not how to greet a guest.” 

_I am not a guest,_ she thought bitterly, _I was raised between these walls just the same as any of your children._

“It is quite alright.” She smiled genially, “I suspect we share the same disregard for propriety.” 

“Indeed.” Catelyn took a breath, weighing her next words. “I must ask you, child, what was the exact reason that you were pulled to Winterfell?” 

“To see the children. The grounds too. I admit, Winterfell feels like my home, and I miss it when in the South.” 

“I see. Then you did not come for Robb?” 

“Not as much, Your Grace. He is often in Kingslanding on business and calls in when he can.” When Catelyn did not immediately reply, she hastened to add, “He is quite busy, of course, so that does not happen often.” 

Her gaze shifted from inquisitive to piercing. “How would you say he is held in the eyes of the Southrons?” 

“He is thought of well, especially in business matters. At every social event we have attended together, his conversational skills have been remarked upon very favourably. In fact, just the other day —”

“Excuse me, child, but I simply cannot hold my tongue any longer.” Daenerys’ heart shrivelled in her chest. “I would not say this if I were not so close to your late mother, but I feel I owe it to her to treat you as I would my own daughter as she strayed.”

Her spine, already holding her fairly upright, went ramrod straight. Just the mention of her mother sparked fury in her gut. She struggled to keep it off her face, hands curling into fists in her lap. 

“I hold the Lannister clan with no particular regard, but I recognise well the benefits of the Duchess Baratheon’s marriage to the Duke. Her eldest daughter has the respect of her father’s name, as well as the benefit of her grandfather’s money.” 

“I know the girl well. She is of lovely character.” 

“Then you will know that the Duchess and I intend to reach an agreement. Though he drags his heels, Robb is aware of what good the union will do our family, and I expect a wedding will take place before next winter.” 

She remained silent.

If only she could keep her words in, if only she could control her temper a moment longer, then she could be free to leave. 

“I also hope he has made it clear that a marriage with you is simply impossible. I am aware that you hold special feelings for one another, and perhaps if your mother still lived I would consider it, but I cannot allow Robb to besmirch the Stark name for the sake of puppy love.” 

Crashing waves. 

Clear blue skies. 

Brilliantly green trees. 

Arya’s yells, Rickon’s shrieking and Bran’s giggles. 

Missandei’s soft voice and Robb’s whining. 

The smell of horses. 

Warm toast. 

The sun on her skin.

Anything, _anything_ to make the rage go away.

“I hold no ill will to you, Daenerys. Perhaps if things were different, I would welcome you, but as they stand, it is impossible.” 

“Have you thought of Robb?” She snarled, the words escaping her in a tumble, “Have you thought of his feelings on the matter?” 

Catelyn reared back, shock filling her expression. “I beg your pardon?” 

“He plainly does not love Myrcella Lannister, just as she does not love him. How can you reasonably ask him to marry her when he does not love her?” 

“Love will come.” 

“And if it does not?”

Her face hardened, and her chin lifted into the air. “You must excuse me, but I fail entirely to see how such intimate familial matters are your business, Daenerys.” 

If she was in a kinder mood, she would rein herself in, bow to Catelyn’s attempt to distance herself from the matter. As it was, she leapt from her seat. “You made it my business when you invited me here to talk of them.” 

Catelyn’s already stern expression collapsed into one of contempt, but she had more restraint than Daenerys, choosing to direct her gaze to the window. “My apologies. I will ask you to inform my children that I will not be joining you for dinner tonight.” 

Every part of her crackled with rage, but she managed to force a curtsey. “Your Grace.”

The walk to the dining room was more of a stomp, the fine heels she had insisted on wearing digging into her heels. 

The gall of it all!

It was bad enough that Catelyn was going to try and force him into a loveless marriage, but to be completely oblivious to his true feelings altogether was unforgivable. She had to be given away. There were not enough tears in the world to stop it. But why should Robb have to settle when his business and estate were worth more than her weight in gold? 

“You look angry.” 

Bran’s bemused voice stopped her in her tracks, only a few paces from the dining room. 

“Bran,” She looked him up and down, “You look dashing.” 

He half-smiled, “And you look beautiful. But very angry. Did my mother say something untoward?” Though she remained mum, her emotions must have shown on her face, for Bran winced. “Will you accept my apology on her behalf?” 

That got her to huff out a laugh. “I shall not, because I believe people should apologise for their own actions, but for your sake I will let go of my anger.” 

His answering smile was warm. “Allow me to be your escort to dinner this evening, Your Grace.” 

“Many thanks, my Lord.” She accepted his arm with a curtsey, making him giggle. 

A red-faced, merry footman, who had watched their exchange with one eyebrow raised, opened the doors to the dining room for them. 

A wall of noise greeted them. 

Robb was seated at the head of the table, still in his ruined clothes from earlier, though he had bothered to slap something into his curls to make them lie a little flatter. Arya too was in her day clothes, standing on her chair and brandishing a candlestick, one hand curled in the approximation of a hook. 

Rickon had changed, but only into a new shirt and trousers, and was watching with wide eyes, piping up with suggestions whenever Arya’s story seemed to lull. Missandei was beautifully done up, but she had tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks and a crumpled napkin clutched in her fist. 

“I am afraid I will insist that you accept my next apology, Your Grace,” Bran seemed just as taken aback as she was, “They are entirely unaware of what manners are.” 

“All the better, my Lord,” She led him to his place at the table, dodging a stray swipe of Arya’s candlestick, “It would be terribly boring without such festivities.” 

She took the seat beside him and desperately tried to catch herself up on Arya’s story, which seemed to be a long-winded tale about pirates and a maiden who had tricked them into leading her to some hidden treasure. 

Only a few moments passed before the doors were pushed open again. She looked up out of habit, halfway through a laugh, and her jaw dropped. 

In the doorway to the dining room stood Jon Snow, perfectly put together, not a strand of his too-long hair out of place. He was not in his formal evening attire, but he was put together and composed. The butler who had let him in looked at him as though he was some kind of monster. 

She leapt to her feet, heart pounding unsteadily. “Mr Snow!” 

“Jon,” Robb exclaimed, eyebrows practically meeting his hairline, “What on _earth_ are you doing here?”

“Jon!” Arya launched herself up and across the room. She flung herself into his arms, and was very quickly followed by Rickon.

Then, clearly with complete disregard for her, Jon Snow’s face changed _._ With two of his siblings in his arms, he _smiled._

Daenerys did not think of herself as a swooning fool, nor one particularly swayed by good looks, but she would be damned if the turning of his full lips into a smile did not make her slightly weak at the knees. 

The next three weeks would be very difficult indeed.


	4. ~ Interlude ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no dany and jon this upload, but i hope to have the next chapter uploaded more quickly. i've reached the end of a two-week hell period at uni, so i'll have more time to write now. i also really felt like fleshing missandei out a lil :)
> 
> seriously, thank you all for your nice comments and kudos - it means the world to me.

When she woke, it was to the sound of birdsong. 

The room was dark when she opened her eyes, but the birdsong was loud and bright. Automatically, she stretched out for Daenerys, seeking a cuddle before facing the day. 

Her palm hit empty, cold sheets. 

In an instant she was on her feet, heart thumping. It was only when her hand was on the door knob that she remembered where she was. The relief made her sag, knees shaking. 

Winterfell. The North. Away from Viserys and his vile temper. 

Daenerys was safe. 

She slid to the floor and buried her head in her hands, breath coming in shaky pants. It took her a moment to steady her nerves, pressing her palms into her eyes until her vision was filled with colourful light. 

In her letters, her mother often said that her time in Westeros was making her a nervous wreck. There was more truth to her words than she liked to admit. 

She had never much liked men and their violent ways. 

Shortly after the birth of her younger sister, her father had not survived a bout of fever that ripped through their town, and her mother had been forced to take on the helm of leadership. At every turn, her ability and blood were questioned, and though she was a good leader, she had been forced to flee from their home because of her father’s brother. 

It seemed that the desires of men trumped the needs of women, and, watching her mother frantically stuff clothes into bags, she vowed never to associate closely with them. Even the touch of a man was enough to send shivers of revulsion up her spine.

Daenerys and her small frame curling around hers in their rickety bed at school changed her mind. She was outspoken, courageous, and brilliant. Though she had many friends, there was no one quite like the spitfire Westerosi girl, who snapped a matron’s cane over her knee when she dared raise it against a sickly girl. 

There were few things she valued more than her friendship, and despite her reservations about travelling to Westeros to live with her manic brother, she figured that she could offer Daenerys some form of protection. 

How wrong she had been. 

Living with Viserys, and watching her strong, fiery friend bend to him was unbearable. The knowledge that she would soon be married off to a violent man was worse. 

A knock on the door startled her to her feet. On the other side was Arya, with sleep in her eyes and half of her hair sticking up. “Good morning,” She yawned, reaching for a hug. Missandei obliged her, taking comfort in the small gesture. “You’ll teach me how to cartwheel today, won’t you?” 

“I will do my best.” 

Arya yawned again, longer and louder, pulling back slightly. “First, breakfast. Then cartwheeling.” 

She carded her hands through Ayra’s tangled hair and shook her head. “First we need to get dressed.” 

Sitting a half-asleep person in front of a mirror and turning all her attention to their hair soothed her. Her mother had done their hair when she was little, but as her responsibilities grew, they had to learn how to master it themselves. Her sisters had always been clumsier than she, and less patient with complicated twists and braids, so it became her job. Arya’s hair was shorter and more fine than Daenerys’, but combing and braiding it kept her mind busy and moving.

“Where’s Dany?” She asked once Missandei had secured the last braid and turned her attention towards her own hair. 

“I suspect she has gone walkabout,” She said easily, freeing her hair from its wrap. Arya watched her movements through the mirror, eyes less cloudy, “She loves it here almost as much as she loves seeing you and your brothers.” 

Arya bit her lip. “Is she angry? About Jon?” 

“I do not believe so.” 

“I truly didn’t want to keep it a secret. Jon is one of my most favourite people. I think he and Dany would be great friends, if only they knew each other.” 

“Arya,” She finished her quick tidy of her hair and took Arya’s hands in her own. The poor thing looked as though the guilt was eating her alive. “If Daenerys is angry at anyone, it is your father and your mother, and perhaps His Grace.”

“She should not blame Robb either,” Arya said fiercely, “He loves Jon terribly.” 

“I believe Mr Snow said something very similar when his identity was revealed,” She remarked fondly, “Come now. We need to get dressed before we catch a chill.” 

“Trousers,” Arya reminded her as she dug around in the chest she shared with Daenerys, “Dany will have packed some.” 

The pair she fished out were an interesting shade of green, and her expression as she held them away from her body made Arya snicker. 

Despite her reservations, she put them and an old blouse on, hoping she wouldn’t run into Robb. Daenerys complained bitterly about his refusal to wake before midday, so if luck was on her side, she would have the time to teach Arya then slip back to get changed. 

The mere thought made her cheeks colour. 

How foolhardy it was to presume he would even notice. It was even more foolhardy to care; though Robb was a Duke, he was a kind man who cared little for pomp and dress. 

Arya found a similar pair of trousers, though hers were a more mellow colour, and they walked to the kitchen together arm in arm, yawning periodically.

Though it was barely light out, the kitchen was a hive of activity, with servants and cooks bustling in and out. Something smelt divine, and it made her stomach rumble loudly.

“Morning Cook!” Arya called over the din, “What’s for breakfast?” 

A portly middle-aged woman turned and grunted at the sight of them. “You are too early. Take some bread and scram.” 

Instead of arguing — in the seven years Missandei had known her, Arya hardly ever shied away from a chance to argue — she swiped a loaf. 

“Thanks!” 

She eyed the brown loaf as Arya tucked it under her arm. “Are you quite sure that is all you want?” 

Arya tore off a corner and shoved it into her mouth. “Of course not. This is merely a pre-breakfast snack.” 

They found a small corner of the parlour to huddle in, a thrill of excitement racing up her spine as they crouched on the floor rather than sitting at a table. The Starks cared little for decorum, but eating freshly baked bread on the floor of one of the grandest rooms in the whole manor made her feel like a naughty child.

“This is the best way to eat a pre-breakfast snack,” Arya said matter-of-factly, offering her the next hunk. 

“You indulge in pre-breakfast snacks often?” 

A wicked grin was her only answer. 

They munched through most of the loaf, the silence punctured by an occasional appreciative moan. It was really very good bread. 

“Arya,” She said finally, “Forgive my ignorance, but are you not meant to be in school with Sansa?” 

She made a disgusted face. “I hate school. Mother threatens to send me away once every few months, but she never does. I think she is afraid that I would embarrass her too much.” 

Her eyebrows shot up, “Is it really such an abhorrent thing?” 

“Of course! Nothing of history is ever mentioned, nor anything about mathematics and geography. Sansa says that once every few weeks a professor comes in to teach the basics, but I already know the basics! The library is full of books about all kinds of interesting things, and Jon says that reading is by far the best way to learn.” She lowered her eyes, “Besides. If Bran cannot go, neither will I.” 

She nodded, thinking of the bright boy. He had been ten at the time of his accident, and the shock of the fall had brought on a terrible illness that still plagued him. It was impossible to send him away in his condition, and it made perfect sense that Arya would refuse schooling to keep him company. “I see.” 

Arya munched through her last bites of bread, “Did you not dislike school?” 

She hummed, thinking the question over. At thirteen, the school in Pentos was a long way from her home and her mother. The teachers had a penchant for being cruel, and she still wasn’t quite sure what she had learnt beyond improving her crocheting. 

“It was difficult, but if I had not gone, I would never have met Daenerys.” 

“Then you never would have met me.” 

Sensing Arya’s mood dropping, she reached over and pinched her cheek lightly. “And then you would forever be unable to cartwheel properly.” 

She blinked, surprised, then grinned. “Come on then, I want my first lesson now. Hopefully I shall be an expert before anyone else wakes.” 

“With the skills of your brothers, I wager that is a rather easy goal.” 

They collected cloaks at the door, Missandei tugging a thick brown one of Daenerys’ over her shoulders. It was too short for her, but none of her garments were thick enough to cope with Winterfell’s spring. As they walked out into the crisp, cold air of the early morning, she drew it around her frame more tightly, suddenly grateful for the hideous pants as goosebumps erupted over her arms. If nothing else, they were exceptional at keeping her legs warm. 

Though the sun was just barely out, the garden was covered in a thick layer of fog, hiding the forest from view and making breathing difficult. 

“Good grief,” She shivered, “One could mistake this weather for the winter.” 

Arya shot her a brilliant smile. “The cold is one of the best things about the North. When Father took us to Kingslanding to see Dany, we were all running around in our underclothes for three weeks.” 

She snickered at the mental image. “You Starks are a different breed.” 

“Indeed. Alright, show me how you do it.” 

The grass was coated in dew, but the feeling of the earth under her palms as she twirled was the same as it had been when she was a child, being coached by her older sister and cousins. 

When she came upright, Arya was staring at her with awe. 

She blushed, “It is not so difficult. One just needs practice.” 

For twenty minutes, as the fog began to lift little by little, she instructed Arya on how best to move her body, amazed by the sheer determination the girl had. Certainly, if it had been quite so hard for her to get it the first time, she would have simply given up. 

Her hard work was certainly paying off, however, as she was now able to kick her legs in the air and stay suspended for a few moments before losing her balance. It was closer to a handstand than a cartwheel, but for someone who could barely hold herself up on her arms twenty minutes previously, it was excellent progress. 

Just as she was about to call it a morning, worried for the state of Arya’s arms, legs and back, sure they must have been black and blue, a whistle echoed across the lawn. They both looked up, and found Robb swaggering across the gardens, dressed more casually than he usually was in Kingslanding. Striding through the fog, he was a vision, like something out of the romance novels their school matron used to read. 

As he came closer, her mind momentarily drifted to her state of unsightly dress before she told herself off. He would not care, and even if he did, it should not affect her so. 

“Good morning, my Lady,” He greeted, coming into earshot.

She gave him a smile, unable to stop the happiness that raced up her spine. “Good morning, Your Grace.” 

He stopped beside her, turning his attention to Arya, who gave him a look and executed an almost perfect handstand. “You have been trying to get ahead of us.” 

“I _am_ ahead of you,” Arya corrected, kicking back and landing on her feet. It appeared that she had saved her best effort to show off to her brother. “There’s simply no way for you to catch up now.” 

Robb snorted. “I do not think Missandei would be cruel enough to refuse to teach me, and only one lesson should be enough to render me better than you once more.” 

Arya looked unfazed. “I doubt it.” 

“Go fetch Rickon, cretin. I will not have him whine at me all day simply because you could not wait for the rising of the sun to learn.” 

She huffed but did as she was bid, streaking across the lawn in a blur of limbs and hair, leaving her alone with the fog and Robb. 

They stood in comfortable silence a moment, watching as the fog retreated in the wake of the sun’s steady rise. It was not often that they were permitted to be alone together, and she intended on relishing every moment. 

He shifted slightly, breaking the stillness in two. “Dany’s face looks better today.” 

There was an edge to his words that made the quiet happiness shrink. The mere reminder of the colourful bruises that decorated Daenerys’ face under a thick layer of powder made her hot with anger. “Mr Tarly’s salve works wonders.” 

“Viserys,” He crossed his arms over his chest, “He does such things often?” 

Loyalty to Daenerys and her cause to shield Robb from the knowledge that Viserys lashed out physically waged war with her want to protect her friend. She had never understood why Daenerys was so hellbent on keeping the truth from Robb and Mr Barristan, though she suspected it had to do with some sense of misplaced shame at her inability to calm Viserys herself. 

Her protective urge won out. 

“Often enough.” 

The muscle in his jaw jumped. Waves of tension poured off him, and though he had never been a violent person, she did not like to think what would happen if he and Viserys were to cross paths again. “Dany has told me little of what will happen to her come the end of this trip, but Tyrion Lannister seems to believe that she will be married off to a Dothraki leader.” 

Her nails dug into her palms. “He believes correctly. Viserys hopes to secure a deal with the month.”

“And what will he receive in return?” 

“Money. He thinks he shall get enough to revive his business, to restore his good name.”

His lip curled. “If he thinks Dothraki money will earn him the respect of the Southrons, he is more mad than I thought.” 

“Mad enough to strike his own sister.”

He ducked his head, hiding his expression from her. “The man she is to marry, does she know him?” 

“Only that his name is Khal Drogo and that he is very rich. I have asked her many times if there is any way to avoid the union, but I have been refused at every turn. She still loves him, and thinks that if she is married away perhaps he will grow softer to her, regain some of his mind.” 

“Gods be good,” He swore, burying a hand in his hair and giving it a fierce tug. “Why did she not tell me?”

“She dislikes appearing weak, especially to those she loves.” 

Robb tugged on his hair once more before sliding his hand down to cover his face. “I cannot imagine how torn apart her heart must be. All this while I have complained bitterly to her about Cersei Lannister conspiring to marry me to her daughter. How callous and frivolous I must have seemed.” 

Her heart ached, a familiar pain that accompanied the notion of Daenerys refusing to accept help. “She does not blame you.” 

“She never does.” He did not move his hand, a mirror image of Daenerys in the carriage on their journey North, “I have done many things worthy of blame, but she never holds me accountable. I have to blame myself twice over for it.” 

“Missi!” Rickon screeched, ripping across the garden towards them, his sleep shirt tucked sloppily into a pair of trousers. Arya was only a few paces behind him, an extra cloak draped over her arm. 

Robb turned his back to them, and took a few deep breaths in. By the time the two children reached his side, he was grinning brightly, no indication of his emotional turmoil. 

After what could only be described as trying to squeeze her to death through an embrace, Rickon demanded that she teach him everything she had taught Arya, scowling when Arya crowed that he would never be as good as she was. 

Though little could be said for Robb — she suspected that he was deliberately trying to be bad — Rickon was certainly a quicker study than Arya, more open and receptive to correction. Arya’s crowing soon turned into fierce determination, unwilling to let either of her brothers become better than her. 

As she watched Arya trying to transform her handstands into cartwheels, Rickon balancing for a few moment before flopping over, and Robb goofing around and exaggerating his failures for the benefit of Rickon’s amusement, she tried not to lose herself in introspection. 

Robb was different than any other man she had met. 

When she had first met him at eighteen, he seemed to be an arrogant man, who Daenerys had only remained friends with because of their childhood connection. She had learnt quickly that he genuinely loved Daenerys, the same way she loved her, and a small part of her had warmed to him. 

It wasn’t until her nineteenth birthday, when he showed up in Kingslanding, bright smile and present in hand, that she realised that perhaps Robb Stark was not like the men she had the misfortune to associate with previously. He had whisked them both out for the day, giving her and Daenerys time to truly decompress, and offering playful commentary whenever one of them got too dour. 

They ate at a wonderful restaurant for dinner, and they had to sneak back into the villa when Robb bid them goodnight. Incredibly, they managed not to wake Viserys, and bundled themselves into bed, giggling to each other, a little tipsy from the wine Robb had ordered. 

It was only when she had nearly drifted off to sleep, Daenerys’ arm slung around her torso, that she realised that the birthday was her best yet, and it was, in large part, thanks to him. 

After that, she decided to try and become friends with him. 

It was much easier than she thought it would be, as Robb seemed just as enthusiastic to befriend her. He was just as easy to talk to as Daenerys, likely due to their similar upbringing and personalities. Just like Daenerys, his jokes often caught her off-guard, leaving her sides aching and tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Much to her disappointment, they were only truly friends for around six months. After that, it was impossible to deny that her affection for him was not platonic. 

Daenerys knew her true feelings well enough, though she never brought it up, preferring instead to make strange faces behind Robb’s back when they spoke, or be painfully obvious when letting them be alone together. 

Her friend meant well, she knew, but even just being in the same room as Robb made her heart ache. 

Ever the gentleman, Robb would never have openly resented her feelings, but she was at loath to make him feel uncomfortable. She longed to be his friend, to give him the companionship he freely gave her, but her heart simply would not obey. 

She was twenty-one when she realised that he felt the same way. 

It was at a dinner party, held to celebrate his graduating university. Not many people were in attendance, as he liked to keep his close friend group small. Daenerys’ lip curled when she saw Theon Greyjoy, but otherwise most were very pleasant. 

Then someone said something to Robb, and he had punched them in the face. 

The shock of her gentle, kind friend knocking another man flat made her press herself against a wall, a hand against her racing heart. Daenerys, once she had made sure Robb was in no danger of being ambushed, bundled her out of the room and into a carriage, murmuring nonsense in her ear to calm her nerves. 

He knocked on the door to the villa the next day, requesting an audience with her. She obliged him, and Daenerys made herself scarce. 

“I am sorry, my Lady, for my behaviour last night.” He fiddled with his fine hat, drawing her attention to his hands and scraped up knuckles. 

“You do not have to apologise to me,” She said, cursing the shakiness of her voice. She did not want him to feel terrible about scaring her. It was the fault of her shredded nerves. “I know you must have had a good reason for doing it.” 

“There is no excuse, my Lady. I am a senseless brute.” 

Watching him, a tall and proud man, larger than life, now with heavy dark circles under his eyes, shrink into himself on Viserys’ sofa, made her heart ache. Once he was gone, wan and tired as he strode down the road, Daenerys told her that the reason he had struck the man was because he had made an unkind remark about her.

For her, he had struck a man he had known since he was a mere babe. Then, and only then, did she realise the truth of his affections. 

That night, she cried into her pillow. Not even Daenerys’ face pressed between her shoulder blades could make the tears stop, and it was only the pounding headache and exhaustion that made the sobs stop. 

Loving him by herself was easy. 

Her affection for him could be explained away, rationalised as a simple girlhood fantasy. When she eventually returned home, it would be easier to forget him if he were simply an unattainable fancy, to move along with her life without him. 

The knowledge that he loved her too was more painful than anything she had ever experienced. 

It was true that she was of noble birth, but her mother had been forced to flee their town. All her family had was their little cottage, and enough money to send her and her sisters away to school. She did not resent her mother for her choices, nor her father for dying, but it was a fact of life that she did not have the money to marry. For the majority of her life, it had been a reality that she had cherished. 

Robb, on the other hand, was a wealthy Duke. Even before his father had died, he had been a highly sought after husband for many of the noble Westerosi ladies. He was expected to marry well, and had more than enough choice to do so. 

At least while she loved him alone, she did not have to think of the impossibility of a future together, nor did she have to worry about his happiness. 

“Well I must say,” She finally remarked, watching Rickon _almost_ twirl the whole way over, “You have all improved markedly.” 

Robb punctuated her sentence by crashing onto his back, letting out a strained gasp as the wind was knocked out of him. “I can feel myself getting better by the second,” He wheezed, flapping his hand about in the air for one of his siblings to help him up. 

When neither appeared compelled, she steeled herself and took a few confident steps forward, faltering only slightly before taking his outstretched hand. 

A jolt of electricity zoomed up her arm from the place their skin met, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Almost immediately, Robb snatched his hand back and rolled onto his knees, eyes wide with shock. 

“My Lady, I —” The crimson crawling up his neck was surely matched in her own cheeks, “I am deeply sorry.” 

“Why should you be sorry?” She said in a rush, summoning some of Daenerys’ boundless courage, “Are you disgusted by me, Your Grace?” 

Shock was replaced with horror. “No, never. I would never — you misunderstand me, my Lady.” 

“Unless I have offended you,” Her confidence was flagging under the weight of Rickon and Arya’s twin expressions of confusion, “Save your apologies.” 

_This may be all we know of each other,_ she thought, offering her hand out to him once more, _I refuse to not know your touch._

His eyes flicked from the proffered limb to her, and just as she was sure he was going to reject her offer, he took her hand delicately. He used his own strength to climb to his feet, and once he was standing, he did not let her go, the pretence of her helping him up quite shattered. 

His hand was much bigger than hers, palm wide and strong, fingers long and thin. She could not help her tremble at the heat of his skin, so warm where the air was freezing, nor the dryness of her mouth under the weight of his unspoken words.

They had never touched before, despite being in love since they were twenty-one. They would be parted forever in less than a month.

They had wasted so much time. 

“Thank you, my Lady.” 

She let him go, the happiness that had evaporated earlier dragging her under its heady wing once more. “The next time you try to amuse Rickon, Your Grace, try to collapse in a way that will ensure you will not break a bone.” 

He dropped his hand to his side and flexed it once before smiling sunnily at her, “As you wish.”


	5. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! i have my final exam of the semester tomorrow, and couldn't sit on this any longer. after that, uni will be over for a month, and i'll have more than enough time to finish another chapter and then (hopefully) finish this damn fic!
> 
> your comments are so wonderful and encouraging and are truly the only reason why i write.

It was pitch black when she woke, not a sound disturbing the stillness of the normally vibrant manor. Missandei’s breaths were slow and steady, and she did not stir when she crept out of bed and dressed, making sure to pat some powder over the bruises before she slipped out into the hallway. 

Nowhere else in the world did she wake up earlier than she did in Winterfell. 

When she was younger, she used to creep out of the nursery, careful not to make a sound, and would spend hours chasing around the servants, or climbing trees by herself.  Her mother had despaired fondly as her temper degraded as the day went on, the lack of sleep making her irritable, but no matter what was done to try and keep her in bed she always woke up before the sun. 

She reached a hand out as she walked the hallway. Rhaegar used to scold her for touching the surface of the grand painting that hung on the walls. As the faces of Starks gone looked down at her impassively, she skimmed just above the surface, thinking of him as she did. 

She had not known her eldest brother very well. By the time she was born, he was nearing his thirties and was very involved in the business. He did his best, she learnt through William, to keep her, Viserys and Mother away from their father’s vile temper, but it meant she did not spend much time in his company. 

He’d also had no particular love for the North, choosing to stay in Kingslanding or at their Dragonstone manor whilst her mother obliged her requests to see Robb and the forest. The few memories she had of him in Winterfell were in the library, hunched over a book, spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose. 

He had loved art. She remembered that much.

She stopped at the end of the hallway in front of the largest painting of them all. It was a huge portrait of some Stark family, in a grand room that no longer existed. The eyes staring out at her were cold and dark, and she had never liked the way they seemed to follow her as she walked past. 

Rhaegar had called it a masterpiece, leaning close and pointing out fine details for her appreciation. She wished now that she had paid closer attention to his lecture instead of rocking on her heels, aware of Robb gesturing impatiently at her from around the corner. 

Not for the first time, she wondered what he would do if he were still living. Would he have been able to rein Viserys in? If he was around to handle the money, the public scorn, the sly nature of the Southrons, would Viserys ever have snapped? Or would he too have grown just as twisted and broken as their father, as Viserys? 

Before she could get sucked under by that line of thinking, she descended the stairs, resisting the urge to slide down the fragile banister. 

Winterfell hadn’t changed once in the twenty-five years she had been alive, bar the treehouse. There was comfort in its stagnation, in the fact that its old halls and cavernous rooms remained the way they had been when she was toddling, using her mother’s finger as a tether. 

There was pain in it too. It made her all the more aware of how much the world around Winterfell had changed, and how it had changed her. 

She made sure to poke her head into every room she passed, picking out the small details. The scuffed carpet along the wall in the dining room, where the butler stood at attention during fancy dinners. The small  _ D _ carved into the leg of a chair in the drawing room. Even the dreary sitting room, vacant for years and years, had a piece of her in it. 

It was the kitchen that had always been at the top of her list though. No matter what time of day it was, it was always bustling with activity and delicious smells. 

Poking her head around the door jam, she took in the comforting hubbub. Cook was swearing at her serving girls, bemoaning the state of her stock. When a farmhand tossed an armful of sticks into the open fire, he was damn-near thrown out on his ear, Cook wailing about him singing the ends of her dress. 

“Her Grace is finally home,” She snarled, snatching a spoon away from a girl and shooing her away from a bubbling pot, “I’ll not have any more of her meals cooked to anything less than perfection!” 

She bit her lip, curbing a wide smile. 

It was no secret that she was Cook’s favourite, nor that Cook liked few others. Even Robb, master of charisma and charm, had no luck winning her favour. It was one of many points of pride between the two of them, one that never failed to make Robb sulk. 

“Morning Cook,” She sang out, entering the room.

Cook dropped the spoon with a yelp and spun around, face of thunder collapsing into nervous shock. “Gods be good, Your Grace!” 

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” 

Cook shook her head vigorously, “Not at all, Your Grace. I know well enough that you like to sneak down here to see me.” 

“And sample your cooking, of course,” She grinned.

Cook’s lip wobbled. “Gods girl,” Her eyes were shiny as she wiped her hands on her apron, “Come here. Let me have a look at you.” 

She obliged, grinning as she was examined. “I am sorry I have not been able to visit. I have missed you terribly.” 

Cook went blotchy. “You need not worry about me, Your Grace. I know well enough how life in the South gets away from you.” She eyed her disapprovingly, eyes gliding over her jaw without suspicion, “They do not feed you properly there. You’re all skin and bones.” 

“Well they cannot be blamed for not comparing to the cuisine I was brought up on,” Her hands were grasped and held up for inspection, “And  _ you _ would not be happy unless I was as round as a ball and unable to move unless I was rolled.” 

Cook chuckled, patting her hands gently, “I’ll just have to fatten you up before you leave,” She said resolutely, turning back to the stove, “His Grace did not see it fit to tell me you were visiting us, so I’ve none of your favourite dishes prepared, unfortunately.” 

“Oh you know I love everything you make,” She grinned at one of the serving girls, who ducked her head and continued shaping a loaf of bread, “I will eat anything you place in front of me.” 

“Of course,” Cook sighed happily, picking up the wooden spoon someone had fished out of the pot, “No one else appreciates my work the way you do.” 

“Then they are fools.” She put her hands on her hips, “Now, tell me, what can I do to aid you?” 

That made Cook gasp like a scandalised lady, nearly dropping the spoon again. “There are no jobs in this kitchen fit for a Duchess!” 

“I used to peel carrots for you all the time!” She protested, taken aback by the fervour of the answer. 

Cook shook her head vigorously, “I’ll not have some outsider catch you elbow deep in peelings and get strange ideas, Your Grace. Whether you like it or not you are of noble blood and your reputation will _not_ be sullied for the sake of bald carrots! Go now, take a walk. I promise breakfast shall be ready soon enough.” 

She stuck her bottom lip out, earning herself a chuckle, but Cook would not be budged. With nothing to do, she walked through the kitchen to the path leading to the lower gardens, surprised to see the sun only just creeping up, barely cutting through the dense fog.

If she did not run so hot, and if she had not spent so many of her winters in the North, perhaps she would have felt a chill in only a men’s shirt and trousers. As it was, she stuck her hands in her pockets and began to walk, breathing in the thick air. 

She had no destination in mind; there was little to see so early, when even the groundskeeper was likely still tucked under a blanket. 

Only once had Ayra attempted to accompany her out at such a time, during her phase of wanting to emulate her every action. Unlike Robb, she had managed the early start well enough, but the lack of  _ doing _ drove her mental. 

The cold settling over her skin was welcome. The stillness, broken only by the calls of birds, was more welcome. 

It was the nothingness that made Winterfell mornings so special. 

Inevitably, she found herself at the lip of the forest, skirting between the tall trees and the wide open gardens. It was probably too early to venture in, especially when more dangerous wildlife were only just slinking back into the depths of the woods, the warmth of spring bringing back more appetising prey than Cook’s chickens. 

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, looking back at the distant form of the manor. Breakfast would probably be ready soon. The children would probably be waking up, eager for playtime. 

She turned to the forest, to the inviting darkness. 

As it always did, temptation to venture in overpowered any concern about getting a limb ripped off by a wolf or bear. Besides, she reasoned, starting down one of the many paths leading to the heart of the woods, she hadn’t been able to properly explore the treehouse the day before, and that was something that she wanted to remedy.

The birdsong grew louder the further she walked, trees growing broader and taller. Despite her slightly heeled boots, she abandoned the path in favour of clambering over roots and wriggling through the small gaps between trees. The bark from trees scraped her hands and arms raw, and her hair was half pulled out from its braids by twigs, but she was breathless with laughter, cheeks aching with the force of her smile.

She had almost reached the half-clearing where the treehouse was when a flash of purple caught her eye.  She stopped in her tracks, smile melting away. Nestled at the foot of a tree was a small plant with brilliantly purple flowers. She walked closer and knelt, frowning at it.

So deep in the woods, plants got very little sunlight. It was not like the groundskeeper to plant flowers, nor did she think one of the Starks would be particularly compelled to venture so far into the woods to plant something. 

Intrigued, she reached out to touch it. 

A branch cracked behind her. 

She leapt to her feet with a yelp and spun around, certain she was about to come face to face with a wolf or bear. If she was mauled on only the second day of their trip, Missandei would wrench her out of the afterlife and beat her bloody. 

But instead of a wolf or bear, two paces away from her stood Jon Snow.

He was dressed in a loose shirt, dark trousers and boots that were a sight more worn than those he had adorned last night. His hair was not bound back, but curling wildly around his head, and he looked rather tired. 

“Mr Snow,” She squeaked, the shock of seeing him nearly tipping her over. 

“Your Grace,” His voice was much lower than the last few times they had spoken, rough with sleep, “Are you lost?” 

She was lost for words, temporarily unable to cope with the sight of him. He seemed unashamed of his state of undress; or perhaps his mind had not caught up to the fact that even his boots were unlaced. 

“Your Grace?”

“Ah,” She snapped out of it, praying her cheeks were not red, “No, I know exactly where I am.” 

The corner of his lip quirked in an approximation of a mocking smirk. “Of course you do.” 

All the warmth ignited by his sleep-roughened state vanished. She straightened. “I have walked these woods since I was a child, Mr Snow. If I did not know where I was, then I would be a fool.” 

His dark eyes deliberately scanned her up and down, “Forgive me, Your Grace, but you appear to have been running from something, not enjoying an early morning stroll.” 

She cast a quick glance down at her arms and suppressed a groan. She was covered in scratches and scrapes, some only pink, others bleeding sluggishly.  Not one to concede, she lifted her chin. “I do not stroll, Mr Snow. I venture.” 

He took a step forward, closing the gap between them. She was proud her breath did not catch, not even when he lifted her arm and twisted it slightly to show her a deep cut stretching down from her elbow.

“This does not look like venturing, Your Grace.” 

She frowned down at her arm. Now that it had been brought to her attention, she could feel the slight sting of it, but she had no recollection of sustaining the injury. “If I stopped each time I bled, I would not get very far.”

He met this with silence, prompting her to look up at him. 

This close, she was able to make out three fine scars around his brow bone and eye. They were so thin that it was possible not to notice them, and she couldn’t comprehend just how he might have acquired them. Her eyes flitted between them, not noticing that he had completed his own assessment of her face.

“Your jaw looks better.” 

She instinctively yanked free of his grip, hands shooting up to cover the bruises. She could feel the powder under her fingers and relaxed slightly in the knowledge that he likely could not see the mess of black and purple that decorated her. “Mr Tarly’s salve works wonders.” 

He did not look convinced, but he did not challenge her, stepping back. “Indeed. Then, Your Grace, if you are not opposed I will walk you back to the manor.” 

She did not move her hands, but a brow lifted before she could stop it. “You think me incapable of finding my own way back?”

“No,” His answer was easy, “I only thought it would be considered impolite for me to let you walk back on your own.” 

“Most things I do are considered impolite, Mr Snow,” She started back the way she came, a little disappointed that she had not managed to see the treehouse, “And though I would not be opposed to company, I think it would be more impolite for you to be seen without a coat.”

“I do not plan to be seen,” His voice was cool, “I will walk you to the edge.” 

She looked back at him, a little surprised. “You will not breakfast with us?” 

He shook his head seriously. “The Lady of the manor wishes not to see me.” She stared, brow furrowed with pity. His eyes narrowed. “The feeling is mutual.” 

The snort escaped her, unbidden. His straight-face accompanied with words free from decorum were not something she was used to. 

“Alright then, Mr Snow. To the edge of the woods.” 

They walked in silence, sticking to a path this time. She decided against walking back to the lower gardens, choosing a route that would end closer to the front of the manor. 

Jon Snow said little, sticking a pace or two behind her, but his presence was not unwelcome. Certainly, it was better than Robb chatting her ear off, or Arya tugging at her sleeve every five steps to get her attention.

When they reached the edge, she turned to thank him, only to find he had already melted back into the canopy of trees, birdsong swallowing the sound of his footsteps. 

She tried not to frown, striding through the gardens. Jon Snow was obviously not used to company, especially not those who he was expected to see as above him.  Could she blame him for it? No, she supposed she could not. Still, it did not mean his lack of farewell did not sting, just a little. 

Her worries were quickly forgotten when, to her delight, in the more open part of the gardens she spied Robb, Missandei, Rickon and Arya. Robb and Missandei were standing close together, talking and laughing, whilst the two children were still attempting to cartwheel. 

“Ahoy there!” She called, grinning when she caught the attention of the children. 

Both simultaneously decided to show her their progress, which had indeed markedly improved from the day before. Rickon nearly sent them both over with an unrestrained kick of his leg, but she estimated that it would only take a day or two more before they were cartwheeling everywhere. 

“Morning, Dany,” Robb greeted, shooting her a lazy grin as she approached. 

She looked between him and Missandei, noting their lax posture and the lack of awkwardness despite their closeness. “Good morning, Your Grace. What an honour it is to see you so early; I can only presume you were dragged out of bed by your hair?”

Robb rolled his eyes. “Have you ever considered,  _ Your Grace, _ that the reason you do not see me before noon is due to an aversion to you rather than an aversion to waking early?” 

“Never,” She countered cheerfully, taking Missandei’s hand, “I know you enjoy my company too much to wilfully spend a moment away from me. Has Cook not called breakfast yet?” 

“Any moment now,” Robb said, casting a look at the manor, “If she does not, I fear my insides will consume each other.” 

“Always with the dramatics,” Missandei’s tone was dry, “Though I will admit I am beginning to understand the merits of a pre-breakfast snack.” 

In the same moment, she and Robb turned to glare at Arya. “You said you only had pre-breakfast with me!” She exclaimed, just as Robb growled; “You disloyal scoundrel.” 

“Oh,” Arya tilted her head as though she could hear something, “I think that’s Cook calling us!” With that she was off, not quite running, not quite walking, but out of grabbing range in seconds, leaving her and Robb with slack jaws. 

“Traitor,” She managed, earning herself a huff from Robb. 

Rickon looked at them with pity. “That’s Arya,” He told them matter-of-factly, “You can’t trust her to love one person best.” 

She half-laughed. 

True enough, she had believed for many years that she was Arya’s undisputed favourite, failing to recognise the many years that separated her visits North. It did not hurt, sharing her love with Missandei and Robb, but it was an odd thing to realise, the fact that she was not uniquely favoured. 

Robb stalked after Arya, his footfalls heavier than usual. The three of them started after him, Rickon catching up and bouncing in circles around him, jabbering about useless things. He was trying to make him feel better, she knew, but it didn’t look as though it was working. 

They shared many weaknesses, she and Robb. One of their worst was their need to be liked by all, to be special in people’s affections. Even though they filled a special role for each other, falling short when they were sure they were winning hearts burned them almost to the point of physical pain.  As she had grown, she had become better at ignoring the tug in her gut, at not taking such things so personally. Though she truly adored him, Robb had always been the more reactionary of the two of them, and sometimes he was truly insufferable because of it.

Whilst he was distracted with his mood, she sent Missandei a meaningful look, leaning in so she would not be overheard. “Something appears to have shifted in the short time I was not at your side.”

To her surprise and delight, Missandei did not shrink or blush at the question. “Perhaps.” 

She looped their arms together, pulling her close. “Good. It is more than overdue.”

_ That  _ made Missandei’s cheeks colour, but out of pleasure rather than embarrassment. “Quiet, you.”

She said no more, grin evidence enough of her joy.

Cook and Arya were waiting for them in the dining room. Cook was flanked by one of the girls she had seen in the kitchen earlier. Her face was ruddy with effort, and she curtsied low. “Your Grace.” 

She smiled, “Cook, this looks delightful. You have truly outdone yourself.”

It was true. The table was done up exquisitely, in the fine cloth she knew that Catelyn reserved for special guests, and piles of food filled almost every empty patch of wood. 

Cook curtsied low, face more ruddy than usual. “I am pleased you think so, Your Grace.” 

“I hope you did not exercise any more effort than you would usually.” 

“Not at all Your Grace.”

Robb’s snort was quite not muffled by his hand, and if Cook’s fierce glare was anything to go by, he would pay for it in some manner or another. 

She swallowed her own grin. “We will enjoy it wholeheartedly.” 

The smile returned, and she was given a pat on the arm before Cook sashayed out of the dining room, leaving her pallid assistant waiting for egg orders. 

Arya and Rickon wore twin expressions of shock. 

“Cook  _ likes _ you?” Arya demanded, eyes as wide as saucers. 

A prickle of self-satisfaction ran over her spine. “She is a great friend of mine. That is one lesson my brother taught me that has never been wrong; make friends with the cooks and you will be the happiest person in the household.” 

“Well I  _ would _ , but she doesn’t like anyone!”

Robb sighed, half-throwing himself into the chair at the head of the table. “A harsh reality of life, children, is that no matter how handsome, charming or polite you are, it is unlikely any of us will ever match up to Dany.” 

“So pleased you have finally come around to reason, Stark,” She simpered, sending Rickon a wink when he giggled. 

“This all looks delightful,” Missandei said diplomatically, settling down on Rickon’s right, opposite from Arya. “And enough food to feed an army.” The last part was added with some apprehension as she eyed the rather fearsome stack of pikelets.

She picked up her fork, mouth watering, “We shall have to take out whatever we do not plow through to Jon and the groundskeeper.”

There was a rather uneasy pause, but Robb sniffed and made a noise of agreement. “The Gods only know he needs more meat on his bones. Guinevere, I will have my eggs scrambled, please.” 

The maid curtseyed, and turned to Rickon. 

“No eggs for me,” He grinned, mouth half full of pikelet. 

When no one else appeared likely to want eggs, the maid melted through the servants door leading to the kitchen. 

She watched her go with half a frown. In her memory, the servants at Winterfell were unlike the servants in the South, who feared harsh retribution for the slightest mistake. People like Cook, and the grumpy groundskeeper who spoke only in grunts, even to Robb’s father. 

The girl, with her pale face and clenched fists, did not fit the usual mold. 

“Are you not hungry, Dany?” Missandei caught her attention, brows furrowed. 

She shook her head slightly, and reached over to snag half a sliced apple. “I am ravenous, but are we not meant to wait for Lady Stark and Bran?” 

Robb’s lip curled infinitesimally. “Our Mother has been called to attend her brother in Riverrun rather suddenly, and she has taken Bran with her. I was informed of their departure when I awoke this morning. They will be away for a month or so.” 

Relief flooded her. 

“I see,” She started, crunching through a sliver of apple to save herself responding. Robb shot her a dry look, which she shrugged her shoulders at. “You will have to give her my best when they return, then, Bran especially.”

As the pile of food on her plate grew in size, she couldn’t help but think of Jon Snow. 

Without Catelyn rattling around the manor, perhaps he could cease his rattling around in the woods, and sleep inside instead of — well, wherever it was that he was sleeping. Next meal time, she thought, stuffing two rashers of crispy bacon into her mouth at once, he could eat with them rather than pick over their leftovers. 

Her fork paused, halfway between her plate and her mouth. 

Why on earth did that thought fill her with so much pleasure? She was almost disgusted at herself for feeling so strongly for a man who, in all honesty, was little more than a stranger. 

“Dany,” Robb’s voice snapped her out of her daze, “I want to take you to the mill.” 

She made a face. In all the years she had been coming North, she had only visited the Stark mill once or twice. Though she knew Robb had made a considered effort to improve the conditions of it since his father’s death, in her mind it was the same dirty, depressing place from her childhood. “You cannot be serious.” 

“Of course I am serious. You did not really think you were brought here merely to play, did you?” 

“What use do you imagine I will be at the mill?” She asked solemnly, unable to follow whatever joke he was making.

He shovelled a mouthful of egg into his gob, and spoke with some difficulty, “You alone are trusted to deal with Tyrion, are you not?” 

“Only because Viserys hates his guts!” 

Robb waved his knife, disregarding her argument, “Point stands. You have a mind for business as well as a mind for dealing with people. You know most working at the mill, and they will feel more comfortable complaining to you than anyone else.”

_ “Robb.”  _

_ “Dany.” _ His expression turned serious, “I am not flattering you, nor trying to keep you busy arbitrarily. Many of the policies I have enacted were born from your guidance. I wish to squeeze you for more of your sense.” 

They stared each other down from opposite ends of the table, his mouth  _ still _ disgustingly full of egg, neither willing to give an inch.   


“Oh for the love of— Dany,” Missandei put down her fork with a clatter, “You have the mind for a great number of things, the business of people chief among those. Though I know it is not in your nature to simply agree when he proposes something, could you please just accept the offer without an hour of bickering?”

They all blinked at her, shocked at the strength behind her words, but Missandei did not shrink.

“Alright,” She agreed, “But I will not hear a word of complaint if I am unable to help you.” 

Robb gave her a grin, which only widened when she screwed up her face with disgust at the sight of egg chunks. “Not a word.”

Despite their collective hunger, they barely managed half of the breakfast spread. Cook had truly spared no effort, and even though each item on the table was delicious, it was impossible to finish. By the end of it, she, Arya and Robb were all groaning and clutching their bellies, miserable. 

“This is your fault,” She accused Missandei, who, under Rickon’s direction, was sorting servings of food into parcels for the servants, movements quick and nimble, “You food demon.”

Missandei did not pause, tying a complicated knot and bow with ease, “It is not my fault you three take every small thing as an invitation for competition.” 

“It is,” Arya piped up, eyes lidded, “I cannot think of how, but it is.” 

She moved her head slightly to glare at Robb, moaning when it sent pangs to her stuffed belly, “You still wish to venture to the mill?” 

He was half-asleep, hands folded over his chest, “Tomorrow. No, the day after tomorrow. Or in a week. Whenever I next rise.” 

Even the snort she let out was painful, and she could not keep her eyes open long enough to watch Missandei and Rickon finish sorting the parcels. The chair was horridly uncomfortable, but even the thought of moving made her want to throw up.

_ What a shame, _ she thought, limbs loosening. 

She had wanted to help distribute the food, if only for the opportunity to introduce herself to any new servants.  No matter. There would be time enough to see them tomorrow. And if that time included the opportunity to grill Jon Snow, to force him to reveal the secrets of his nature and dispel the mystery of her attraction to him? Well, then she would be grateful for that too.


	6. The Mill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so the break got away from me, then uni started again before i knew it. strangely though, i seem to write better when i have pressing academic deadlines...who knew 
> 
> again, my endless thanks to everyone who has read, left a comment or kudos on this fic. it is the only reason we've got this far. i have shortened it quite a bit, simply because i was worried i would not be able to complete it, but we're on the home stretch now!

Against her every hope, for the next two weeks, she scarcely saw Jon Snow. 

He had blankly refused to move into the manor, lip curling slightly at the suggestion. Despite Catelyn’s departure, he seemed repelled by the very idea of setting foot in Winterfell — his dramatic entrance on the first night aside — so even dining with them was out of the question. Robb had tossed her a  _ told you so _ look, and she had tried not to make her disappointment too obvious as the conversation moved to Rickon’s insistence that he needed no lessons whilst she and Missandei were at the house. 

The issue was only exasperated by the fact that she herself was hardly on the grounds. A single trip to the mill had not sufficed for Robb: one turned to two, to three to four, until they were making the trip everyday. Her work was all-consuming, requiring her to look over the books, to speak to those who worked for him, to argue with various middlemen that sneered at the prospect of taking direction from a woman. 

When she wasn’t being corralled, or lost in her own thoughts about how to improve the mill, she spent most of her time with the children. Bran’s calming presence was missed heartily, especially when Arya and Rickon threatened to settle arguments physically more than once a day, but she loved their made-up games and eagerness to soak up new knowledge.

It did not lessen the sting of not seeing Jon Snow, nor did it serve as distraction to her impending deadline. Missandei grew more restless each time the post came, jaw setting until she verified no mail had come for them. Robb pretended not to know what was coming, but it quickly became clear to her that he had been filled in to some degree because he too seemed on edge every time the end of their trip was mentioned.

Admittedly, it was not all tragedy; she had seen him from afar, once. 

Halfway between the door and the carriage, she had spied him outside the groundskeeper’s lodgings. He had been chopping wood, hair loose, breath curling around his head like smoke as he swung his axe. 

The sight of him had made her slow, heat igniting in her belly, intending to watch him a while before calling out to him. Alas, oafishness worsened by his excitement, Robb had kept her moving, hand over hers on the inside of his arm, words coming a mile a minute.

So consumed was she by her thoughts and misgivings that she was frightened nearly out of her skin when Jon Snow appeared in the doorway to Robb’s office at the mill, for reasons besides his soundless appearance. 

“Gods,” She gasped, lifting a hand to press against her chest, “Mr Snow!”

“My apologies, Your Grace, I did not intend to frighten you.” 

She shook her head automatically, curling her hand over the paper she had been scrawling figures on, “No, not at all. I was not expecting someone until six.” 

By someone, she meant Robb, who had snuck off after noon, promising to return with something she could eat and good news from Mr Manderly, who had been dragging his feet about changing his shipment rates. Clearly, he found he could produce neither and had sent Jon so she could not express her frustration at him until she had calmed down a modicum. 

“My brother has found himself indisposed, Your Grace,” Jon’s expression was tight, as though he wished he was anywhere else, “He sent me to escort you back to Winterfell.” 

She found herself tensing in response, eyes narrowing at his demeanour, and she could not help that her reply was slightly caustic; “Well, I am sorry he has inconvenienced you. I shall direct him not to do so in the future.”

He blinked at her, almost owlishly, as though he hadn’t expected her to respond so. For a moment, hot pride curled in her gut, similar to the burn when she proved Baelish wrong, or when Viserys could not think of a way to correct her without making an overt fool of himself. 

“I did not intend —” He half-sighed, hand making an aborted move towards his hair before he yanked it back down to his side, “The request was unexpected, Your Grace.”

She deflated. Taking her temper out on him simply because he was not reacting to her in the way she had imagined he would was unfair and unkind. “Forgive me,” She found herself saying, lowering her head back to her papers to hide the burn in her cheeks, “I have stared at my own writing so long I fear I have forgotten myself.” 

“Not at all.” 

Silence fell over them, uncomfortable and prickly. For something to do, she made quick work of sorting the piles of paper on the desk into two, picking out those with urgent information to take back to Winterfell with her. 

“I do not mean to alarm you, Your Grace,” He piped up, drawing her gaze, “But it is nearing nine. He did not ask me to come for you until much after eight.”

Her lip curled with annoyance. Drat. By the time she reached home, she would have no time to do much of anything but give Robb the papers and collapse into bed. 

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” She sighed, folding the slim stack of papers to be taken home in half, smiling tersely when he raised an eyebrow. “He has a bad habit of forgetting to consider my time.” 

He frowned, deep and pensive, and she briefly regretted the casual derision of her words. Robb was not wilfully careless; she often teased that he could only cope with so much before he went into shutdown. Truth be told, she was half-surprised that this was the first time he had forgotten she was still at the office. For a moment, she considered revising her words, considered clearing Robb’s name, before she remembered that the man in front of her was no mere stranger but Robb’s brother. 

She stood and gave him a polite smile. “Shall we, Mr Snow?” 

The mill was silent as he led them outside, the usually crowded floor devoid of people. How she had not noticed how late it was despite the deafening lack of noise was beyond her. He must think she was a fool — or worse, that she waited because she was sick with love for  _ Robb. _ She suppressed a disgusted shudder at the thought.

“My brother,” He held one of the large doors open for her, expression blank, “He has asked much of you.”

For a moment, the urge to take bitter offence to his words rose in her chest. Then, as quickly as it came, it faded, leaving her oddly peaceful. He was not Viserys, not Baelish, not a pompous southron looking down his nose at her. She had to remember that he too was part of the family she considered her own, and likely wanted to know her better. “He has always struggled with business,” She admitted, locking the door with her ring of keys. “Figures, dealing with hard men with harder bottom lines; he is not suited to such things. I do not struggle the same way, so I am more than happy to lend him my help.” 

She turned, catching his blank look morphing into a strange one. “And what, in Your Grace’s estimation, is he suited for?”

She tilted her head to the side, pondering the query. “For the sun,” She said slowly, thinking of the home Missandei described to her, of the warmth of the earth beneath the soles of her feet as she walked, head tipped up to the sky. The image of it in her head was perfect for Robb, for the life he and Missandei were owed together. “Family, travel. For love.” 

He did not reply to that and she thought perhaps she had exhausted him of all conversation until they had climbed into the carriage and it began to move beneath them. 

“You think yourself unsuited?” At her quizzical look, “To love. The sun. Family.” 

She coloured slightly, and coughed to cover her surprise. “Not unsuited. Unused to.” 

His expression shifted, brow softening, lips tightening. Not quite piteous, not quite sorrowful. It dawned on her that he had resonated with the sentiment behind her words and was rendered quite at a loss because of it. She bit back a grin. 

“I love Robb,” She continued, eager to widen their moment of connection, “But only because I know that every good thing he has, he owes entirely to oblivious circumstance. If he were a whit more self-aware, I confess I am not sure I would be able to think of him so dearly.” 

His smile was soft, sincere, and rather breathtaking.

This time, the silence they lapsed into was comfortable despite the wild pounding of her heart in her chest. 

“I am unsuited to heat,” The words bubbled in her, finding release in the dark carriage, “Though I am not as battle-hardened as the children, I cannot stand the summer in Kingslanding. Winter can be dreary, but it is never so dreadful as air thick with dust and sweat.” 

She did not expect a response, content with allowing him to be privy to that small fact. It felt good, she realised, to tell him, to insinuate that the North was her home, the only place she felt truly rested.

“Large rooms.” His voice was low, as though he thought speaking any louder would attract the attention of someone else, “I will never be suited to them.” 

_ Large rooms. _ The words swirled around her head. That at least partially explained his unwavering hatred of the manor, she supposed. 

“Balls. I am aware they are an invaluable tool for business and marriages and connections, but I hate them. Big dinners too, if Robb is not in attendance.”

“Running.” 

“Cooking,” She sighed, thinking of the many lessons Cook had given her, each one ending with something burnt, raw, and utterly inedible. 

“Chopping wood.” 

Her jaw went slack, “You lie, Mr Snow. I saw you —” 

When her brain caught up with her mouth, she almost bit her tongue in her eagerness to swallow her words. For his part, Jon looked caught between amusement and surprise. “Aye, I can do it. But I think myself unsuited.” 

That certainly had not been  _ her  _ impression. 

Before she could say words to that effect and shame herself further, he seemed to sense her tension and moved the conversation along. “I am suited to the woods. Not all of them, just the ones near home.” 

She nodded in agreement. “Likewise.” 

“Forgive me, but they do not appear to suit, Your Grace,” His words are light, and they both look down at her freshly scraped palms. Missandei had come up with a complex climbing game, and she had been perhaps too enthusiastic in her attempts to win. Despite her annoyance at him declining to participate in games, she had been grateful that Jon had not been about to witness her graceless tumble from an embarrassingly low tree, especially not when he clearly already thought her unused to the woods.

She sniffed. “Yes, well, looks can be deceiving.” 

He took a breath and opened his mouth, but before he could say a word the carriage jolted to a stop. She couldn’t help the lift of her brows; had it really been twenty minutes? When she turned to joke with him, she found the stiffness had crept back into his posture. Automatically, she reciprocated, in spite of her confusion. 

He cleared his throat and, instead waiting for one of the footmen, opened the door and hopped out. For a moment, she thought he was going to simply walk off into the night, their conversation nothing but a way for him to pass the time, but he turned, a determined look on his face, and offered his hand up to her. 

Her breath caught. 

Then, gingerly, she rested her palm in his. He was colder to the touch than she expected, nothing like the gentle warmth of Missandei, and his eyes refused to leave hers, dark with some emotion she could not place.

In an effort not to make a fool of herself, she let her hand rest on his for the least time she could manage, pressing it against her side as soon as she severed contact.

“Well, Mr Snow,” She almost gave him a half curtsey, catching herself at the last moment, cheeks flaming as she turned on her heel, not bothering to wait for his formal goodbye. 

By the time she reached Robb’s study, the edge of her embarrassment had burnt away, leaving only her tiredness and the last remnants of determination. She didn’t bother to knock when she saw the door ajar, just pushed it back and threw herself into the armchair opposite his desk. 

Robb was poring over papers, brow furrowed. He looked up briefly to shoot her an apologetic look. “Sorry, Dany, Manderly caught me in the village. I have to sort these out tonight, else the shipment will stay on his docks.” 

“He’s a rotten one,” She informed him needlessly, getting a noise of agreement for her trouble. “I have notes, if you wish for a break.”

From the sound of his sigh, it appeared as though her notes were the last thing he wanted to hear, but he picked up a fresh sheet of paper and looked up, a dutiful expression on his face. 

She went over the discrepancies she had seen in his books, running a finger down her lazy scrawl, her eyes burning with the strain of reading back her figures for the upteenth time that day. He nodded along, jotting down her words and occasionally piping up with a question or two. 

By the end of it, she felt leaden, slumped in the comfortable chair and halfway to sleep. “Everything else is in the office, but it is not so urgent.”

He sighed long-sufferingly, pushing his pen and papers away from his as though they had offended him. “This process be so much simpler if you could work with me all the time,” He bemoaned, “Even if I make these changes, there will always be more I need to make, budgets to reshuffle, men whose hands I must force.” 

She rolled her eyes. “That is the nature of life, Your Grace. I cannot stay by your side merely to hold your hand.” 

He looked up at her through his eyelashes, sticking his bottom lip out. “Why not?”

“I will kill you,” She countered just as sweetly, “And I will feel no remorse.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his long-backed chair. “Worth a try.” For a moment, they stared at the papers on his desk, calm washing over them. Then he shifted, just slightly awkward, and cleared his throat. “So. Jon escorted you from the mill.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, and was rather put out by it.”

“Was he?” His tone was mild, expression more so, but she knew him better than anyone. She could tell when he was scheming. “I was under the impression you two got along nicely at the Lannister ball.”

“We have talked perhaps three times, Robb,” She countered, “Even I can manage being cordial to someone for that short a time.” He nodded thoughtfully, not going for the dig she deliberately left herself open to. That was when she knew she had him. “You did it on purpose,” She accused, eyes wide. 

He didn’t go shame-faced at the accusation, just tilted his chin up. “I kept him from you for so long. I merely wish for my brother and my dearest friend to become acquainted with one another.” 

“Robb,” His name was little more than a growl, “You hurried him away from his work so he could escort me home. He was none too pleased.” 

A flicker of guilt was quickly swallowed by a smug look. “I am certain you wore on his last nerve, but Jon wears on my last nerve, so I presumed you two would balance each other out.” 

The anger on her face was only half-put on; whilst she  _ had _ enjoyed his company on the ride back, he had obviously been inconvenienced by the task. “He is not your servant, Robb. You cannot just send him out to get me on a whim, even if it is not your intention to degrade him so.” 

That was enough to make his face fall, bravado falling from the set of his shoulders. “Do you ever grow tired of being right?” The question was not malicious, but she was not quite ready to let go of her annoyance at him.

“I will not work tomorrow,” She told him with finality, closing her eyes. “And if you try to set something like this up again, I shall ruin your books myself.” 

He hummed, accepting her terms, and they sat quietly for a long time. She had almost fallen asleep, lulled by the soft scratch of his pen, when a cool hand touched her cheek. Her eyes flickered open. 

Missandei was at her side, expression tender.  “Hello stranger.” 

She groaned, leaning into her palm, suddenly acutely aware that her cheeks were hot from the fire crackling in the centre of the room. “It feels an age since I last saw you.” 

“Only a day,” Missandei corrected, but her tone suggested that she too had been feeling the absence. After all, she thought darkly, who knew how much time they had left together?

Carefully, she reached up and took her hand. “We shall see you in the morning, Robb.” 

He gave them both a smile, expression bearing exhaustion that no doubt found a mirror in her, “No work tomorrow,” He repeated, making her demand sound like his promise. 

She and Missandei walked back to their room hand in hand, listening intently as they filled each other in on their seperate days. She snorted at the mental image of Missandei cramming herself into the chest during a round of hide and seek, and dutifully ignored the twinkle in her friend’s eyes as she gave vague details about the ride back to Winterfell. 

But as they turned back the covers and clambered into bed, melancholy filled the air like smoke, weighting her limbs to the bed. 

“How are you faring?” She asked, trying to keep her voice light as she stared at their hands, still linked.

“Miserably,” Came the answer, “I am perpetually filled with equal parts dread and anger.”

“Focus on the good,” She encouraged, struggling not to sound hypocritical, “You shall journey home soon, and your mother will be overcome with joy to see you. Your sisters too.” 

Missandei looked away, likely attempting to hide the scowl that painted her face. “How can I focus on the good when you —” She choked, words swallowed by a sob. “You will know such limited happiness that I cannot indulge in any thoughts of my own.” 

“Nonsense,” She countered fiercely, crushing Missandei to her and setting her jaw against her own tears. “My happiness lives with you, always. There is nothing anyone could do to take it away.” 

“They will try.” 

The words hit her low in her gut, the truth of them burning away at her insides. Of what little she had heard about her betrothed, much had been unconscionable. He seemed to be a particularly unreasonable, unkind man. 

But she was not yet married, and she could not stand thinking of a time when she would be, not when she and the person she loved most were still together.  “Perhaps,” She acknowledged, holding her tightly, “But all this time, you and I, we have loved each other tremendously. It is a gift few are afforded. We have a duty to be grateful for that, if for nothing else.”

Missandei did not say a word, just burrowed closer and cried.

The morning saw them both with sore eyes and slow, small smiles, but the news at breakfast that Bran was on his way back to Winterfell sans his mother brought cheer, easing their despondency. Robb whisked himself away almost as soon as the last forkful of food passed Rickon’s lips, waving vigorously and wishing them all a lovely day. 

Arya remarked on her continued absence at length, clutching at her hand tightly whenever her words edged a little too close to mean. She did her best to soothe the hurt, chucking Arya under the chin and ruffling her hair until she dissolved into giggles. Rickon seemed unaffected, too busy being mightily pleased with the newest game Missandei had invented the day previous (just how she kept coming up with new ones was a mystery), involving a ball and cunning. 

She stood aside as they played the first round, watching with her arms wrapped around her torso. It was the beginning of her third week in Winterfell, which meant that within the next few days she would be called back South and her life would be over. She would miss this — them, the grounds, the work, all of it. Dully, she wondered whether or not she had cursed herself more with this final trip, and if it might have been better not to have been reminded what life could be like at its best. 

Rickon shrieked as Arya batted the ball his way, leaping to the side to avoid it. In turn, she glowered when he hit her in the leg, turning to Missandei, lips parted to start an argument that was promptly forgotten when Jon emerged from the woods. 

It seemed he knew the game, because after a few hurried greetings — she lifted a hand, and he gave her a shy half-grin — he was pulled into the fray, cajoled onto Arya’s team and used mercilessly as a barrier between her and the oncoming ball. 

This would be the last she saw of him, she realised absentmindedly. Despite the heat that curled in her as she watched him laugh and push curls out of his face, there was no hope for anything but this. Even attempts to get to know him more thoroughly as a friend would more than likely fail; he was a quiet, private man, nothing like his siblings. Nothing like her. 

He looked over and caught her eye, mid-laugh. She froze, fingers tightening their grip on her elbows. 

_ If he comes over _ , she thought,  _ I will pursue him. _

It was a ridiculous, fanciful thought, one that would bring her more misery than enjoyment. Still, a laugh bubbled in her throat, briefly enchanted by the idea. 

She watched as he turned back to Arya and bent down. Then, to her alarm, he placed the ball in her hands and jogged over to her, coming to a stop at her side. 

He was out of breath but beaming. “Good morning, Your Grace.” She nodded uselessly, mouth dry. “You are not working today?” 

“No. I decided against spending another day waiting for someone who has no intention of showing themselves.” It was meant to be a joke, but his face fell a fraction, and the micro-change made her shift on her feet. “And you, Mr Snow? No wood chopping?”

“No.” 

His accent was broader, tone more clipped. She cursed herself, wondering if it was the way she spoke about Robb that had caused the change. 

“I see,” She fumbled to keep her tone light, “What  _ are _ your plans for the day?” 

“Nothin’ of note, Your Grace.” 

She took in a steadying breath. One last try. “Well, I am sure the children, Missandei and I would enjoy your company today, if you were not busy.” 

He looked at her sharply, then away just as quick. “I don’t think I will be able to.” 

“Mr Snow,” Her voice took on a light edge, frustration licking at her confusion, “I fear your time away from society has made you ignorant to the ways of speaking to women.”

He snorted. “I have two sisters, Your Grace, and brother who likes to talk. I know enough.”

Heat crawled up the back of her neck and she had to look away from him, cursing herself. What  _ excellent _ news; not only was he obviously offended about the way she had spoken of Robb, but he was utterly uninterested in her. 

“Ah. I see. My mistake.” She was proud that her voice wasn’t shaky, but if the look Jon shot her was anything to go by, she wasn’t getting away with it. 

He moved closer, his eyes darkening, and her stomach sank. He was going to come right out with it and reject her and no matter what restrictions her husband placed upon her, she would never be able to come North again for the shame of it. If she ever saw any of the Starks again it would have to be in Kingslanding, which they all hated. 

Or worse — what if he confided in Robb? Her friend was not so cruel that he would mock her to her face, but he was not so kind as to never mention it, especially if they had a fight. She swayed on her feet. 

“Dany!” 

Her head snapped up and she practically sagged with relief at the sight of Robb, striding across the lawn towards them. 

How she had ever thought a trip North was a good idea completely baffled her now. Even the concept of being alone with Jon Snow had been so compelling a mere day ago, but all she had done so far was make an utter fool of herself and break her own heart.

She schooled her expression into something passably neutral. “What is it?”

Robb’s demeanour was grim. He reached them in only a few strides and grasped her forearm tightly when he came to a stop. “A letter. From Kingslanding.” 

The blood drained from her face. If it hadn’t been for his grip on her, she would have fallen to her knees. “Why —?”

He shook his head. “I know not, but I received word this morning claiming that a group of Dothraki landed on Westerosi soil two days ago. There is a chance it is merely gossip but…” 

Robb’s voice faded until all she could hear was her heartbeat thundering through her head. If Khal Drogo was in Westeros, then her life was as good as over. She reached for the letter, fingers trembling, and he obligingly pressed it into her hands, his expression filled with anxiety. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Jon backing away, frowning. She was once again grateful for his tact, and cursed herself for thinking that he was too inexperienced to pick up on her flirting. 

She managed to wait until he was out of earshot, walking back towards Missandei and the children with purpose, before turning back to the letter. 

She looked up at Robb, who shook his head. He wasn’t going to let her read it alone, and she didn’t have the strength in her knees to shake him off. Carefully, he guided her back to the manor, his hand her tether to the world. The letter burnt in her hand, the weight of it so heavy it was a wonder she did not pitch over. 

As soon as the door to his study was shut, she tore the envelope open, a wave of nausea hitting her at the sight of Viserys’ elegant script scrawled over the thick, creamy paper usually reserved for people he wanted to impress.

_ Sister, _

_ Khal Drogo has finally accepted my terms for marriage, and sails for our shores as I write to you. You must come home the moment you receive this letter, as Winterfell is so very far from Kingslanding. You must not be late. The fate of the family rests on your swift journey south. Have Stark send word when you leave so I know when to expect you.  _

_ Your Brother.  _

Her hands shook. 

She knew that her trip North would be her last as an unmarried woman. Knew it would likely be the last time she and Robb were permitted to be in each other’s company, the last time the children could run up and embrace her with abandon. The last time she and Missandei could travel alone together. It was almost amusing, how she could know something for a fact, yet still be shocked when confronted by the reality of the end of her freedom.

“I am to leave for Kingslanding immediately,” Her voice was strangely distant, as though it were Robb speaking, not her. “If what your friend says is correct, then my —” She choked, on the word, “Then he will be awaiting my arrival. I am not to delay such a man.” 

Robb shook his head vehemently. “No, Dany, you cannot. He is —”

She nodded, feeling as though she was underwater. “I know. But the arrangements have been made and there is nothing more to do.” 

“That man —” He stepped forward and lowered his voice until it was little more than a whisper, “They say he has killed a great number of people, including several… _ companions _ of his.” 

“Viserys is sure his money will save the company and the Targaryen name. Besides,” She almost laughed, tears lurking just below the surface, “If I refuse to marry, he will kill me himself.”

“Over my dead body.”

The sudden vehemence in his words made her head snap up. In all the years she had known him, she had never heard him speak in such a manner. His face was like ice, jaw clenched so hard it hurt her to look at him. 

“There is nothing you can say or do that could stop this,” She told him, mustering a matter-of-fact tone, “And I will not ask you to.”

“No,” He snapped. He stalked forward, closing the distance between them and grasping both of her shoulders. “I have done too little for you for too long and I have spent years hating myself for it. That ends now.”

She stared, lost. “What on earth —?” 

“Marry me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O


	7. Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! 
> 
> well, so much for a quick next update! uni got away from me, unfortunately. 
> 
> i have another chapter planned out but not written, so it is possible that it could be split in two, or an epilogue added. this story just keeps getting away from me, despite my best efforts. 
> 
> thank you to everyone who has encouraged me in the comments; you guys are the only reason i have managed to get this out of me!

“No.” 

Robb frowned, looking half-offended at the speed of her answer, “What do you mean no?” 

“I mean no.” Her jaw locked. “Khal Drogo is a dangerous man, and my brother is desperate. I will not have you put yourself in danger for my sake.”

He narrowed his eyes, “You speak as though you would not willingly do the same for me.”

“A hypothetical holds no weight.” Her lip curled, thinking of Viserys’ bulging eyes and tight grip. Of the way he had struck her, of the years in which she had watched him lose his mind to madness. “They will not hesitate to kill you.” 

“It makes no difference to me.” He snapped, “If you had the opportunity to save me from a life devoid of love and security, you would do it even at the cost of your own happiness. I am sacrificing no such thing.” 

She wriggled out of his grip to shove at him. “You are sacrificing your future!” 

“What future?” 

Her jaw dropped, furor coursing through her. How could his words be so devoid of resentment when they held so much weight? 

“Your _future_ with a woman whom you love,” She pressed, practically vibrating with anxious energy, “If you marry me, you would be unable to get married to the person you love, and I will not take that from you.”

“Dany,” He half-laughed, tone devoid of humour, “There is a woman who I love.” 

“Then marry _her!”_ She cried, beside herself, “Do not condemn yourself and your future to a life of shame and fear and —”

“I cannot!”

Her breath came in pants and her mind was a muddle. Looking at him, she couldn’t think of who he could possibly be talking about. 

He did not want Lady Myrcella Lannister, just as she did not want him. Princess Margaery Tyrell, as far as she was aware, had already attempted and he had rejected her. The Frey girls were out of the question, and she did not think he was particularly interested in anyone in the Dorne nobility.

Then who —?

_Missandei._

Gods be good, of course it was Missandei. It had been Missandei since the first time she had introduced them. He had never loved anyone the way he loved her.

She almost sobbed, burying her face in her hands. 

“I cannot be with the one I want,” Robb’s voice was kinder, the volume of his voice muted. “It is impossible. At least if I marry you, our friendship can continue in perpetuity, and I can do you some good.” 

“Your mother will never approve,” She choked out, cursing herself for even entertaining the prospect.

“She will never approve of any union I enter, not even if the woman is one of the Gods.” He took her by the shoulders again, forcing her to look at him. His face was wet with tears, and he looked every bit the mess she felt. “Dany, we have loved each other for most of our lives. It will be no great hardship to spend the rest of our days as partners, would it?”

Her bottom lip wobbled slightly. “We must talk to Missandei before —” She squeezed her eyes shut, pain lurching through her. “I will not agree before we talk to her.” 

“Of course.” He released her and nodded, blowing out a shaky breath. “Of course, she must know.” 

As if summoned, a soft knock at the door to his study made them both snap to attention, attention on the door but rooted to the spot. Robb made a garbled sound that Missandei clearly took as permission to enter, because the door was pushed open and she slipped in, closing it behind her. 

Her eyes darted between them, trepidation in her every move. “Is everything alright? Has something transpired with the shipment?” 

“He sent word.”

The normally warm glow that inhabited Missandei’s cheeks fled, leaving her looking faint. “Oh,” She murmured, reaching out to steady herself on the book shelf to her right. “I did not think it would be so soon.” 

Her vision blurred, and she blinked furiously to keep her tears away. “Robb,” She gestured between them, “He has offered. And I will not accept until you — I wanted you to know before.” 

She was not making sense, but she and Missandei had communicated more complicated things with fewer words. 

She looked between them, taking in Robb with his red-rimmed eyes, and her fidgeting anxiously with the hem of her sleeve. Her eyes widened, then filled with tears. 

Daenerys’ heart dropped to her feet. 

There was no way she could agree, not when the very prospect distressed Missandei so. Whatever good that could be brought by the union was nothing compared to what Missandei was worth. Robb, mirroring her thoughts, deflated, dropping his gaze to the floor.

Then Missandei crossed the distance between her and Robb and flung her arms around his neck. It surprised a grunt out of him, his arms shooting up but stopping shy of touching her. 

“Thank you,” She said the words like a prayer. “Thank you.”

If she had not been so overcome, she would have laughed at the look on Robb’s face, at the red crawling up his neck to his cheeks, at the hesitant way he let one hand gently pat her back. 

As it was, she dropped to her haunches and covered her face, shoulders shaking. 

She was permitted only a moment before she was in Missandei’s arms and they were crying then laughing, wrapped together tightly. Years worth of anxiety seeped out of them both, a rush of giddy sadness. Once more she soaked the shoulder of Missandei’s gown with tears, and the knowledge that they were not informed by their impending separation brought more of them. 

It took them a moment or two to gather themselves, and they were still giggling as they pulled away from each other. By the time they had collected themselves enough to wipe their eyes, Robb was bent over his desk, scrawling on a piece of paper.

“We need to move quickly,” He said briskly, setting his pen down and folding the paper in two. He held out his hand and helped them both to their feet, one after the other, the tips of his ears flushing pink when Missandei slotted their hands together. “He will suspect ill almost as soon as he does not get word from you today.” 

She bit the inside of her lip, considering. “Do you believe the Septon would marry us on such short notice?” 

Missandei frowned. “You believe not in the Faith of the Seven, Dany. Surely you need no more than the godswood and a document to present to the Maester?”

Robb looked at her, expression torn. She looked at him, turning the thought over in her mind. 

Almost in unison, they shook their heads. 

“Promises made in front of the Old Gods are binding,” She explained, “And true, as much as they can be. I do not think it wise for us to bind ourselves together in such a manner.”

“More than that,” Robb added grimly, “A union sworn in front of a weirwood is not legal in the same way as one verified by a Septon. We would have no defense if Viserys challenged us, which he is likely to try.” 

“The Sept it is,” Missandei nodded firmly, “We can afford no question of your union.” 

She kissed her teeth. “As it stands, I do not think Septon Aeron has much love for me. I cannot think of a reason to compel him to rush a ceremony for us.”

Robb shrugged and held up the folded bit of paper. “He has no particular love for me either, but he owes me a favour through my father.” 

Before he could call out for someone to take the message, she stepped towards him, forcing him to look directly at her. 

“This will change everything, Robb.” She said solemnly, “Even if we do not get married, once that reaches the Sept rumour will never leave you.” 

He arched an eyebrow, just a little. “You sound afraid.” 

It was a familiar refrain between them, one that had resulted in more than one broken bone. Instead of her usual bull-headed response, she shook her head. “For you, I am.” 

Ever flippant, he rolled his eyes and stepped back to the door, opening it a crack. “Walton,” He called down the hall, pausing for a moment before heavy footfalls reached them. “Would it trouble you too greatly to take this to the Sept for me?” 

“No trouble at all, Your Grace,” Walton rumbled, just out of sight. 

“Trouble the man to give a reply right away, if you would.”

“With pleasure, Your Grace.” 

She smothered a grin, trying to stay in the seriousness of the moment. The Faith of the Seven wasn’t well liked in the North, the lone Sept attended by few, with the Septon Aeron earning himself a particularly nasty reputation for his snobbishness. She had no doubt Walton, who had freefolk kin, would delight in intimidating an answer out of the man. 

“My thanks,” Robb waited until they could no longer hear Walton before pushing the door shut with a soft snick and fixing her with a piercing look. “That seals it. You and I,” His eyes shifted to Missandei, as though he couldn’t help himself, “We are in this together.” 

The air was so thick with tension she could barely breathe for it, Missandei and Robb hanging in the balance. 

It became clear that if they did not speak now, perhaps they never would, and that would _not_ happen, not if she had anything to do with it. 

She edged towards the door, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. They were so wrapped up in each other that she managed to pull it open before their eyes were on her, Robb startled, Missandei accusing. 

Instead of shying away, she lifted a hand and pointed first at her, “Do not be daft,” Then at him, “Do not be daft. This union is in name only. I hope I can trust you both to figure out a way to capitalise on that fact. We shall tell the children at dinner tonight, but if nothing has changed between the two of you by then, I will do something entirely uncharitable.” 

With that, she shut the door behind her and fled, smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. 

There was joy trapped in her chest now, replacing the overpowering sense of relief. 

The shadow that had hung over her life for years, that had clouded the past few weeks in Winterfell, had finally lifted. 

All she could think of was the children, of lifting Rickon into her arms and swinging him about, or tackling Arya and squeezing her until she wheezed. There was no need to leave them, no need to walk a terrible path on her lonesome.

When she got to the front door, however, she found the patch of lawn the children had been on empty. Only Jon Snow remained, pacing in front of the stairs up to the front door, a frown etched into his features.

The sight of him, lost in his thoughts, sent a jolt through her. Suddenly, her words about the false nature of her impending union were ricocheting around her head, loud and inescapable, off-set by the reminder that he had been insulted by her only minutes before.

Before she could do anything, he looked up sharply, and froze. She gave him an awkward grin, which he repaid in kind by half. 

When he made no move to climb the stairs to her, she descended, heartbeat loud in her ears. 

“Mr Snow,” She greeted, “My apologies for my sudden departure.” 

He shook his head, brushing her apology aside easily. “Are you alright?”

She smiled. She felt lighter than she had in years. The worry over Viserys’ reaction to the news plagued her, no doubt, but the idea that perhaps she could avoid Khal Drogo completely rendered her almost giddy with happiness. “Yes,” She caught his bemused look and giggled a little, “I am perfectly content.” 

His expression relaxed, shoulders easing. “I am pleased,” His words were soft and careful, “My brother’s removal of you,” He half-shrugged, “I will admit, I suspected the worst.” 

“Not so,” She said, reaching her hands to the sky with lazy happiness, forgetting herself somewhat. “I was dangling over a most treacherous fate, but no more.” She dropped her hands and fixed him with a serious look. “I am sure Robb will tell you the greater details,” — she had accepted Robb’s offer, but she refused to be the one to tell Jon; the humiliation of needing to be rescued was already almost too much to bear — “But we will have a celebratory dinner tonight. It would please me greatly if you attended.” 

His gaze was heavy, full of things she did not understand. 

For a moment, she thought he was sure to reject her offer, his friendly affection for her outweighed by his dislike for the manor. Then the corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “I will gladly accept.” 

She beamed. 

It seemed likely that her marriage to Robb would mean she could keep Jon Snow’s friendship, a prospect that sent the butterflies in her into a flurry.

He looked back up the stairs, tilting his head to the side. “Missandei and my brother, they —?”

“They have much to talk about. I doubt they will surface anytime soon.” She dismissed, at loath to consider interrupting them. She cast her own glance around for the children. “Arya and Rickon?”

“Cook,” Jon gestured over his shoulder vaguely, “She has been teaching Rickon how to bake, and Arya seems to be newly invigorated in her efforts to prove she is worthy of special affection.” 

“Ah,” She nodded, ignoring the sudden swoop in her gut at the realisation. “I suppose that leaves us in each other’s company then, does it not?” 

“I suppose it does.” His eyes met hers steadily, his emotions once again squarely locked away where she could not read them. “Would you accompany me to the treehouse, Your Grace?” 

She blinked, a little startled by his request. “Of course.”

He nodded, as though confirming her answer for himself, and stepped to the side, allowing her to lead the way. The sun was beginning to reach its peak in the sky, and though the crossing of the lawn took only a few minutes, the cool shade of the woods was welcome. 

“If you do not mind,” His voice was little more than a rumble, and she found herself rather enchanted by it, “Would you tell me why it is that you love the woods so dearly?” 

She tilted her head. “A mixture of things, I suppose. Decorum and double entendres do not exist here, nor do prying eyes judge for every wrong move someone makes. After a lifetime in the South, one learns to appreciate the absence of such things.” 

He grimaced. “Indeed.” 

“One ball was too much for you?” She teased, earning herself a wry look. “Why did you attend? Surely Robb informed you of their hideous nature.”

He cast his eyes away, down to their feet then up to the tops of the trees. He was embarrassed, she realised. 

“I had never attended anything of that sort before. It was the first time I had been permitted to step into society, and I did not realise the extent of the boredom.” 

She hummed. “Lord Tyrion and Duchess Brienne are my saving graces, but they are utterly loathsome things. Robb and I usually compete to see who can get away the quickest.” 

“Aye,” He said ruefully, “I heard much of that.” 

“I am sure,” She rolled her eyes, “He likes to talk much of failures that are not his own.” She ducked under a particularly low-hanging branch. “And what of you, Mr Snow? Why is it that you adore these woods?” 

“I am similarly set free, Your Grace.” That made her pause slightly, looking over at him. He lifted one shoulder bashfully. “When we had visitors, I was hurried out of sight. When we did not, I was still expected to remain quiet and unseen. Here, I could be as loud and unabashed as I pleased, and no one would scold me for it.” 

She felt the words hit her low, striking deep in her gut. 

Every summer she had spent luxuriating in Winterfell — screaming through the halls of the manor, running amok in the woods, laughing with the Starks, feeling truly and honestly free — had come at his expense. 

Words bubbled up in her chest about the unfairness of the situation, but she swallowed them down harshly.

“It pains me to hear so, Mr Snow.” She said softly, just as the treehouse came into view. 

He shrugged and strode out ahead of her. “It matters not to me, Your Grace. It should not matter to you either.” 

_Frustrating wallop of a man,_ she thought to herself, _How in Seven Hells could it not matter?_

He led the way up the treehouse, climbing up the ladder with a nimble grace she longed desperately for. Put her on a horse and she was the quickest thing for miles around but place her in the trees she had been climbing her entire life, and she was often lucky to escape with no bones snapped. 

The first thing that struck her when she got to her feet was that the treehouse now seemed thoroughly more lived in. 

A dark woollen coat, strikingly similar to the one he had worn the night previous, was draped over the back of one of the chairs. On the table, there was a roughly made clay plate and a metal cup that looked as though it had seen better days. 

The door to the room she had already seen the inside of was ajar, allowing her to glance in. Now, the thin blanket she had spied last time was draped over the cot, and there was a flat pillow at one end. 

She looked over her shoulder. 

He was shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting from the table, to the small room, then back to her. 

She looked back at the room. 

Then it clicked. 

_“This_ is where you have been staying?” The words were startlingly high in pitch, imbued with fire.

He seemed startled by the ferocity in her voice, blinking owlishly at her. “Yes.” 

She threw up her hands, utterly consumed. “Every time I suppose he has done the worst I think him capable of, Robb _bloody_ Stark does something more unconscionable,” She raged, “Forcing you to live here, whilst he luxuriates in his rooms? Damn him to the Seven Hells!”

“Your Grace,” He seemed rather lost in her wake, “I elected to stay here. It was not my brother’s doing.” 

She didn’t quite deflate — she was far too stubborn for that — but her anger was replaced by incredulity. “You _elected_ to stay here? Why on earth would you subject yourself to such a thing?” 

“I wished not to sleep in the manor,” He said awkwardly, as though it could make up for it, “And I do not usually stay in Winterfell so long.” 

She scowled at the cot, pieces of who he was slotting together. “It is a miracle, Mr Snow, that you have not caught your death sleeping in such a drafty place.” 

He shrugged, as though it were a trifling matter that he had been sequestered in the middle of the woods like some kind of outcast. “I am made of tougher stuff, Your Grace.” 

A reply made its way to the tip of her tongue, but she managed to keep her composure, gingerly taking the seat at the head of the — _his,_ she supposed — table. “When you are not staying here,” She cast a glance around, silently admitting that there were worse places to live, “Where do you reside, Mr Snow?” 

“I travel often, Your Grace, but mainly I am occupied further North.” He fidgeted with the ends of his threadbare coat, looking a stranger in his own space.

“I remember you saying as much. You are a carpenter, are you not?” 

“I am, Your Grace. Tea, Your Grace?”

She narrowed her eyes. 

On the best of days, she hated her title, but coming from his mouth as she sat in his pseudo-home deep in the woods, it tasted like ash. “I am quite content, Mr Snow, thank you.” 

He took the seat two away from her and folded his hands in his lap, seemingly chastened. “I apprenticed with a carpenter when I was sixteen, Your Grace. I have worked with him closely since. He is a good man, and a great friend.” 

“You enjoy your occupation?” 

His eye twitched. “As much as I can.” 

She cocked her head to the side, intrigued. “Is there something else you would rather do?” 

The comment earnt her a half-smile. “I cannot complain, Your Grace. It is better than a great many other things.”

“Certainly,” She acknowledged, leaning toward him, “And yet in my experience, something better than a great many other things does not soothe a restless heart.” 

For a long moment, he looked at her as though he were considering something. Then, gently, he nodded. “I suppose you are correct.” 

“What, then, does your heart yearn for?” 

“I have always loved painting. And making crockery but,” He gestured to the plate, sitting forlorn between them, “I confess I am not such a master of it.” 

She smiled, considering the now-endearing, too-flat plate. “I think it is the height of charm, Mr Snow,” Then an idea struck her. She straightened in her chair and clapped her hands together. “I demand a portrait of myself.” 

The owlish blink was back, leaving Jon Snow looking uncharastically gormless. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You are an artist, Mr Snow,” She told him, “And I am commissioning a portrait from you.” When he made no move, she narrowed her eyes playfully. “If you please me, I shall secure you a place at the Targaryen court in perpetuity.” 

Despite the laugh that pulled out of him, it took a righteously impassioned speech about the importance of art before he clambered to his feet to fetch a piece of paper and a small, cracked box of watercolours. 

What she did not consider in her excitement was sitting for a likeness meant remaining still under the weight of his eyes. 

She hoped desperately, arranging her loose linen skirts over her knees, that her nervousness was not obvious. 

He gave her a short, distracted smile and began. 

Her predicament was worsened by the relative tranquility of it all, the general chatter from the birds and the soft scratch of Jon’s brush over his paper the only sound cutting between them. 

Warmth crawled up her chest, and her fingers drummed on her thighs restlessly.

Thankfully, the shadows over his face had begun to elongate by the time he set his brush down, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It meant some of her frantic energy had been dispelled, though her heart still occasionally stumbled over every third or fourth beat. 

His eyes darted between her face and the paper in front of him, frown forming in his brow. “I fear this is not my best work, Your Grace.” 

“I am sure it is lovely.”

Her words did not seem to soothe him, but he placed the watercolour in front of her nonetheless, leaning back in his chair as though to distance himself from her reaction. 

A breath in, then she let her eyes lower.

She did not know what she had been expecting; perhaps a too sweet-characterisation, not dissimilar to the ones the matron forced them to create. Something flowery, meaningless. Soft colours probably, soft edges definitely.

Jon Snow’s portrait of her was anything but soft. 

The lines of her were as harsh as the watercolour allowed, and she wore a scowl on her face like a crown, eyes piercing. Instead of the muted summer dress she wore now, he had dressed her in a dark, high-collared shirt, a bright purple stone decorating the place on her throat where the shirt fastened. 

Careful not to touch the still-wet colour, she traced the outline of herself. 

Here, she was every bit as fierce and unforgiving as she wished to be when cornered by Viserys. This paper image of her; she almost believed she were capable of breathing fire. Pleasure tingled down her spine. 

She remained fixated too long, her lack of reaction prompting him to make an aborted noise and reach out for the paper. 

“Your Grace, I meant no —”

“I know not how skilled a carpenter you are, Mr Snow, but if you are half as skilled as this, then you must be the finest carpenter in all the North.” 

Pink blossomed high in his cheeks, and he spluttered a jumble of words, entirely too endearing, and drew his hands back. 

“Am I granted a place in your court, then?” 

She could not tear her eyes away from the image for longer than a moment, utterly transfixed with the way he had captured her dragon. “For now, but you must earn your keep.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” He said, staying solemn, “I shall do my best.” 

Her smile stayed, even as they packed up and descended the ladder, called away by the rapidly falling darkness. 

As they walked back, she kept the piece of paper held out in front of her, careful to plant her steps deliberately, shuddering at the mere thought of tripping whilst she carried such precious cargo. He glanced over at her once or twice, seemingly amused by her actions, but made no comment.

He led her as far as the door before turning. “Thank you. For sparing me some of your time.” 

“Of course.” She tamped down on a smile and tilted her chin up. “I shall commission more from you, Mr Snow. I want every inch of the grounds captured by your brush.” 

He gave a sweeping bow, not unlike the one he gave her the first night they met. “As Your Grace commands.” 

“I shall supervise your progress, of course,” Pretentiousness was a good cover for her nerves. It allowed her to look him in the eye without shame. “Shall we meet tomorrow?” 

His jaw went slack, just a little, and he seemed to nod before he could catch up with his body. “I would be delighted.” 

She found herself rather breathless at his answer, as though she were a maiden. “Then I will leave you to talk with Robb, and I shall see you this evening.” 

He bowed his head, expression more open than she had ever seen it. “I look forward to it.” 

Then they parted, Jon starting off in the direction of Robb’s quarters as she took the stairs up to her room, feeling as though she were floating. 

She found Missandei folding clothes, smile as soft and dreamy as Daenerys felt. Unable to contain herself, she crossed the room in two strides and flung her arms around her from behind. 

“Today has been the best day,” She sighed happily, resting her chin on Missandei’s shoulder. 

Missandei leant her head to the side, so her cheek brushed Daenerys’ head. “To be sure, we have been blessed by the Gods for something.” 

“As is our due,” She groused, pouting a little. “My eyes are still heavy from our sorrow last night.” She got a light thwack for her words, which only made her smile harder. “We shall be together forever now.” 

“As is our due,” Missandei repeated softly, making Daenerys squeeze her, hard. “How was your time with Mr Snow?” 

“Delightful,” She murmured, lifting up the paper she had been holding away from Missandei’s dress. Missandei made an appreciative noise as she inspected it. “He is a gifted artist.” 

“Indeed,” Missandei tilted it so the colour caught the light. “I am most familiar with this look.” 

She grinned. “Of course you are, you rouse me in the morning. How, dearest, was your time with Robb?” 

Missandei shifted on her feet, fingers tracing an uneven pattern on Daenerys’ forearm. For a moment, she continued to study Jon’s painting. Then, “We love each other very much, and we have decided to cease wasting time.” 

The words required no fanfare, especially not when they were so difficult to form, so Daenerys simply sighed happily. “Good.” 

“Come now, Dany.” Missandei patted her hands affectionately, “Time for dinner.” 

She released her friend and bit her lip, suddenly struck by anxiety. “I fear Arya will kill me when she hears the news.” 

Missandei rolled her eyes long-sufferingly. “Arya Stark loves you too much to kill you. How you do not tire yourself with your dramatics, I shall never know.” 

“But she will think about it,” She pressed worriedly, ridding herself of her dress. 

There was no reply, just a gown tossed at her face. 

By the time they descended the stairs, she was feeling somewhat better, reasoning that the worst reaction to the news would likely come from Catelyn, who was weeks away from returning home. Surely the most Arya or Rickon would feel was mild annoyance.

Although she and Missandei were not late, the Starks had already gathered in the dining room, Arya looking bored in her best white dress, Rickon’s eyes bouncing between Jon and Daenerys as though he couldn’t comprehend the two worlds meeting.

Robb seemed terribly nervous, having swept his hair up and shoved himself into a suit awfully stiff with starch. He barely cracked a smile when they entered, just stood and pulled out the chair beside his own without flourish, leaving Jon to pull back Missandei’s chair.

She blinked at him, taken aback, but lowered herself into the offered chair, eyes snagging on Arya’s as she did. Her confusion must have been apparent, because Arya heaved a sigh. 

“He has been frightfully strange all afternoon, but refuses to acknowledge that he is acting abnormal,” She said, “I would propose that Cook poisoned him, but he has been terrible before the table was even set.” 

“I am acting perfectly normal,” Robb said robotically, earning himself incredulous looks from everyone in attendance. “Shall we?” 

No one dared to breathe a word, though Rickon looked as though he was one more absurd comment away from laughing. They all did as they were bid, eating with only light, superficial conversation to sustain them until the first dishes were cleared away. 

Only then did Robb set down his fork, giving up the guise that he had been eating, and cleared his throat. By now, even Missandei looked a touch unnerved by his attitude. He seemed not to notice. 

“We have something to tell you all,” He began, coughing when his voice cracked. 

The butterflies in her stomach were swept into a flurry of action, beating at her sides until she felt sick. She took in a shaky breath and _just_ managed not to squeak when Robb reached over and grabbed her hand, setting it on the table between them. 

It was as though he had lit a match for a group of moths; every eye was drawn to the sight. Arya dropped her fork with a clatter. 

“Dany and I,” Robb tilted his chin up as though he was expecting a fist-fight, “Are to be married this Saturday at noon.” 

Jon made a sound like he was being choked. 

She refused to look over at him. Her shame was enough to bear without the weight of his pity.

 _“What?”_ Arya didn’t screech, but it was a close thing, “Dany? Marry you?”

“Yes, Arya,” Robb’s tone was almost amused, but his hand was sweaty in her own, betraying his apprehension. “She has agreed to marry me.” 

Rickon was the only one who wasn’t wearing an expression marred by some form of outrage or disbelief. “That means you will stay with us, doesn’t it?” 

She managed to smile at him, “Yes.” 

He pumped his fist, grin a mile wide.

 _“Robb?”_ Arya turned her disbelief on Daenerys, “You will marry Robb?”

Her smile morphed into something a modicum more genuine. “I will.” 

“Well, I for one shall wish you two all the happiness in the world,” Missandei said, eyes shimmering. “A toast, perhaps?” 

Blinking back her own tears, she lifted her glass, proud that her hand did not shake. The others followed suit, even Arya, though she still wore an expression twisted with distaste. 

“To happy endings,” She said, voice wobbling a touch. 

Robb squeezed her hand, tight. “To happy beginnings.” 

Jon lifted his glass higher, refusing to offer a toast. For the first time, she noted just how tightly he was holding himself, his dark eyes stormy. She hoped Robb had informed him of what was transpiring and that he had not been blindsided. She hoped even more that he did not doubt her intentions in marrying his brother, and that perhaps they could —

“To Dany and Missi staying in Winterfell forever!” Rickon lurched his glass high, spilling liquid over the sides. 

“To love,” Missandei said softly, pulling a wide, wicked grin from Daenerys. 

To love, indeed. 

Arya was still frowning, but her expression had mellowed some. “To Dany and Robb.” 

They all clinked glasses — not without difficulty — and she gulped the contents of hers down in one go, courage bolstered. 

Not terribly long after, she retired, leaving the Starks and Missandei to their dinner, exhausted by the emotional upheaval of the day, rather tipsy, and altogether excited for her future for the first time that she could remember. 

Of course, she should have expected some kind of pitfall, especially after such a pleasant day, but she did not. 

As it was, she was just as startled as everyone else when, halfway through breakfast, Robb sighed over the top of his newspaper. “I am sorry to say this, but Jon had to leave urgently last night.”

She froze, knife halfway between the butter holder and her bread, shock hitting her low in the abdomen. 

Arya groaned, picking at her toast. “Did he leave anything for me? A letter, perhaps?” 

“Not to my knowledge, no. I believe he was just as shocked by his summonings; all he told me was Mr Seaworth had urgent need of him, and he could not delay his leaving a moment longer.” 

Her chest felt tight, her breath drawn from her painfully. 

“He did not bid me farewell,” She murmured stupidly.

“Don’t worry, Dany. He often has to leave quickly.” Rickon piped up, mouth full of fruit. “Usually, he does not have the time to say much of anything to anyone.” 

“Oh,” She felt rather faint, “I see.” 

Robb hummed in agreement. “As it is, Dany, I believe we have you to thank for his extended stay and wonderful manners. We have not seen so much of him since Father’s death.” 

Slowly, she lowered her knife, dropping her gaze. She felt no tears in her eyes, but there was a new lump in her throat that she could not swallow around.

Missandei, ever in tune with her moods, furrowed her brow. “Are you alright, Dany? You look pale.”

“Yes,” The words were quiet, the strength sapped from her, “I am quite alright.” 

Hot shame burnt in her cheeks. 

Had she imagined it all? Had she been the only one whose heart had been moved? Had he merely tried to be polite to a woman who had stolen his happiness as a child, then was put off by her forwardness? 

She had thought — 

She had  _ hoped  _ —

She had not felt like such a fool in a very, very long time. 


End file.
